tittiib 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


JAMES  J.  MC  BRIDE 


/l//-c^ 


/^ 


The  Writings  of 
''FIONA    MACLEOD" 


UNIFORM  EDITION 


ARRANGED   BY 

MRS.   WILLIAM    SHARP 


The  Sin-Eater 
The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

and 
Other  Legendary  Moralities 

BY 

"FIONA    MACLEOD" 

(WILLIAM   SHARP) 


NEW    YORK 

DUFFIELD   &   COMPANY 
1911 


Copyright,  1895,  1896,  by 
STONE  &   KIMBALL 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


THE  TROW   PRESS,    NEW  YORK 


S6. 


TO 

GEORGE    MEREDITH 

IN    GRATITUDE    AND    HOMAGE 

AND   BECAUSE   HE   IS 
PRINCE    OF    CELTDOM 


712513 


CONTENTS 


The  Tales  marked  •  were  not  included  in  the  original  editions  of 
The  Sin-Eater  or  of  The  Washer  of  the  Ford 


THE  SIN-EATER 


PAGE 

I 


Prologue — From  Iona 

The  Sin-Eater 17 

The  Ninth  Wave 63 

The  Judgment  o'  God 78 

The  Harping  of  Cravetheen       ....  91 

Silk  o'  the  Kine 115 

*Ula  and  Urla 125 


THE  WASHER  OF  THE  FORD 
Prologue    

Legendary  Moralities; 

I.     The  Washer  of  the  Ford 
St.  Bride  of  the  Isles 
The  Fisher  of  Men 
The  Last  Supper 
The  Dark  Nameless  One 


2. 

3- 
4- 
5- 


6.     The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 
''7.     The  Woman  With  the  Net 

vii 


141 

161 

183 

225 

243 
259 

273 

301 


Contents 

PAGE 

Cathal  op  the  Woods 3^9 

Seanachas: 

1.  The  Song  op  the  Sword  .      ,      .  369 

2.  The  Flight  of  the  Culdees  .      .  382 

3.  Mircath 390 

*4.  The  Sad  Queen 395 

5.  The  Laughter  of  Scathach  the 

Queen 403 

*6.     Ahez  the  Pale 412 

*7.     The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahut  the 

Red 433 

Bibliographical  Note 448 


viu 


THE  SIN-EATER 

AND   OTHER  TALES 


"Here  are  told  the  stories  of  these  pictures  of  the 
imagination,  of  magic  and  romance.  Yet  they 
were  gravely  chosen  withal,  and  for  reasons  mani- 
fold. .  .  .  What  if  they  be  but  dreams?  'We 
are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of.'  What  if 
they  be  but  magic  and  romance?  These  things  are 
not  ancient  and  dead,  but  modern  and  increasing. 
For  wherever  a  man  learns  power  over  Nature,  there 
is  Magic ;  wherever  he  carries  out  an  ideal  into  Life, 
there  is  Romance." 

Patrick  Geddes, 
"The  Interpreter." 


FROM   lONA. 

To  George  Meredith. 

Here,  zvliere  the  sound  of  the  falling  wave 
is  faintly  to  be  heard,  and  rather  as  in  the 
spiral  chamber  of  a  shell  than  in  the  windy 
open,  I  zvrite  these  fezv  dedicatory  zvords.  I 
am  alone  here,  betivixt  sea  and  sky,  for  there 
is  no  other  living  thing  for  the  seeing  on  this 
bouldered  height  of  Dim-I  except  a  single  blue 
shadow  that  dreams  slowly  athwart  the  hill- 
side. The  bleating  of  lambs  and  ezves,  the 
lozving  of  kine,  these  come  up  from  the 
Machar  that  lies  between  the  zvest  slopes  and 
the  shoreless  sea  to  the  west;  these  ascend  as 
the  very  smoke  of  sound.  All  round  the  island 
there  is  a  continuous  breathing:  deeper  and 
more  prolonged  on  the  zvest,  where  the  sea- 
heart  is;  but  audible  everyzvhere.  This  mo- 
ment, the  seals  on  Soa  are  putting  their 
breasts  against  the  running  tide:  for  I  see  a 
flashing  of  fins  here  and  there  in  patches  at 
the  north  end  of  the  Sound,  and  already  from 
the  ruddy  granite  shores  of  the  Ross  there 

3 


The  Sin-Eater 

is  a  congregation  of  scafowl — gannets  and 
guillemots,  skuas  and  herring-gulls,  the  long- 
necked  northern-diver,  the  tern,  the  cormo- 
rant. In  this  sunHood,  the  waters  of  the  Sound 
dance  their  blue  bodies  and  swirl  their  Hash- 
ing white  hair  o'  foam;  and,  as  I  look,  they 
seem  to  me  like  children  of  the  wind  and  the 
sunshine,  leaping  and  running  in  these  sungold 
pastures,  with  a  laughter  as  szveet  against  the 
ears  as  the  voices  of  children  at  play. 

The  joy  of  life  vibrates  everywhere.  Yet 
the  Weaver  doth  not  sleep,  but  only  dreams. 
He  loves  the  sun-drowned  shadozvs.  They  are 
inivisible  thus,  but  they  are  there,  in  the  sun- 
light itself.  Sure,  they  may  be  heard:  as,  an 
hour  ago,  when  on  my  way  hither  by  the  Stair- 
way of  the  Kings — for  so  sometimes  they  call 
here  the  ancient  stones  of  the  mouldered 
princes  of  long  ago — /  heard  a  mother  moan- 
ing because  of  the  son  that  had  had  to  go 
over-sea  and  leave  her  in  her  old  age;  and 
heard  also  a  child  sobbing,  because  of  the  sor- 
row of  childhood — that  sorroiv  so  mysterious, 
so  unfathomable,  so  for  ever  incommunicable. 

To  the  little  one  I  spoke'.  But  all  she  would 
say,  looking  up  through  dark,  tear-wet  eyes, 
already  filled  with  the  shadow  of  the  burden 
of  woman,  was:  "  Ha  mee  duvachus." 

"  Tha  mi  Dubhachas ! — /  have  the  gloom." 

4 


The  Sin-Eater 

Ah,  that  saying!  How  often  I  have  heard 
it  in  the  remote  Isles!  "  The  Gloom."  It  is 
not  grief,  nor  any  common  sorrow,  nor  that 
deep  despondency  of  zveariness  that  comes  of 
accomplished  things,  too  soon,  too  literally  ful- 
filled. But  it  is  akin  to  each  of  these,  and  in- 
volves each.  It  is,  rather,  the  unconscious 
knowledge  of  the  lamentation  of  a  race, 
the  unknowing  surety  of  an  inheritance  of 
woe. 

On  the  lips  of  the  children  of  what  people, 
save  in  the  last  despoiled  sanctuaries  of  the 
Gael,  coidd  be  heard  these  all  too  significant 
sayings:  "  Tha  mi  Dubhachas — /  have  the 
gloom  ";  "  Ma  tha  sin  an  Dan — //  that  be 
ordained,  If  it  be  Destiny  "?  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  lisping  of  this  phrase — common 
from  The  Seven  Hunters,  that  are  the  ex- 
treme of  the  Hebrid  Isles,  to  the  Rhinns  of 
I  slay,  and  from  the  Ord  of  Sutherland  to  the 
Mull  of  Cantyre — never  shall  I  forget  the  lisp- 
ing of  this  phrase  in  the  mouth  of  a  little 
birdikin  of  a  lass,  not  more  than  three  years 
old — a  phrase  caught,  no  doubt,  as  the  jay 
catches  the  storm-note  of  the  missel-thrush, 
but  not  the  less  significant,  not  the  less  piteous: 
"Ma  tha  sin  an  Dan—//  it  be  Destiny!" 

This  is  so.  And  yet  not  a  stone's  throw 
from  where  I  lie,  half  hidden  beneath  an  over- 

5 


The  Sin-Eater 

hanging  rock,  is  a  Pool  of  Healing.  To  this 
small,  black-broivn  tarn,  pilgrims  of  every 
generation,  for  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of 
years,  have  come.  Solitary,  these:  not  only 
because  the  pilgrim  to  the  Fount  of  Eternal 
Youth — which,  as  all  Gaeldom  knozvs,  is  be- 
neath this  tarn  on  Dun-I  of  lona — must  fare 
hither  alone,  and  at  daivn,  so  as  to  touch  the 
healing  zvatcr  the  moment  the  first  sunray 
quickens  it — but  solitary,  also,  because  those 
"joho  go  in  quest  of  this  Fount  of  Youth  are 
the  dreamers  and  the  Children  of  Dreams,  and 
these  are  not  many,  and  fezv  come  to  this 
lonely  place.  Yet,  an  Isle  of  Dream,  lona  is, 
indeed.  Here  the  last  sun-worship pers  bowed 
before  the  Rising  of  God;  here  Columba  and 
his  hymning  priests  laboured  and  brooded; 
and  here  Or  an  dreamed  beneath  the  monkish 
cozvl  that  pagan  dream  of  his.  Here,  too,  the 
eyes  of  Fionn  and  Oisin,  and  of  many  another 
of  the  heroic  men  and  zvomen  of  the  Fianna, 
lingered  often;  here  the  Pict  and  the  Celt 
bozved  beneath  the  yoke  of  the  Norse  pirate, 
zvho,  too,  left  his  dreams,  or  rather  his 
strangely  beautiful  soiil-rainbozvs,  as  a  heri- 
tage to  the  stricken;  here,  for  century  after 
century,  the  Gael  has  lived,  suffered,  joyed, 
dreamed  his  impossible,  beautiful  dream;  as 
here,  now,  he  still  lives,  still  suffers  patiently, 

6 


The  Sin- Eater 

still  dreams,  and  through  all  and  over  all, 
broods  deep  against  the  mystery  of  things.  He 
is  an  elemental,  among  the  elemental  forces. 
They  have  the  voices  of  zvind  and  sea;  he  has 
these  words  of  the  soul  of  the  Celtic  race: 
"  Tha  mi  Dubhachas — Ma  tha  sin  an  Dan." 
It  is  because  the  Fount  of  Youth  that  is  upon 
Dnn-I  of  lona  is  not  the  only  Wellspring  of 
Peace,  that  the  Gael  can  front  "  an  Dan  "  as 
he  does,  and  can  endure  his  "  Dubhachas." 
Who  knoii's  zvhere  its  tributaries  are?  They 
may  be  in  your  heart,  or  in  mine,  and  in  a 
myriad  others. 

I  would  that  the  birds  of  Angus  Ogue  might, 
for  once,  be  changed,  not  into  the  kisses 
of  love,  but  into  doves  of  peace;  that  they 
might  fly  forth  into  the  green  world,  and  be 
nested  there  azvhile,  crooning  their  incom- 
municable song  that  wotdd  yet  bring  joy  and 
hope. 

Why,  you  may  think,  do  I  write  these  things  f 
It  is  because  I  zvish  to  say  to  you,  and  to  all 
who  may  read  this  book,  that  in  zvhat  I  have 
said  lies  the  Secret  of  the  Gael.  The  beauty  of 
the  World,  the  pathos  of  Life,  the  gloom,  the 
fatalism,  the  spiritual  glamour — it  is  out  of 
these,  the  inheritance  of  the  Gael,  that  I  have 
zvr ought  these  tales. 

Well   I   knozv   that   they   do   not   give   "  a 

7 


The  Sin-Eater 

rounded  and  complete  portrait  of  the  Celt."  It 
is  more  than  likely  that  I  could  not  do  so  if  I 
tried,  but  I  have  not  tried;  not  even  to  give  "  a 
rounded  and  complete  portrait "  of  the  Gael, 
who  is  to  the  Celtic  race  what  the  Franco- 
Breton  is  to  the  French,  a  creature  not  ivith- 
out  blitheness  and  humour,  laughter-loving, 
indolent,  steadfast,  gentle,  fierce,  but  above  all 
attuned  to  elemental  passioyis,  to  the  poetry  of 
nature,  and  zvrought  in  every  nerve  and  fibre 
by  the  gloom  and  mystery  of  his  environment. 
Elsewhere  I  may  give  such  delineation  as  I 
can,  and  is  within  my  ozvn  knowledge,  of  the 
manysidedness  of  the  Celt,  and  even  of  the  in- 
sular Gael.  But  in  this  book,  as  in  Pharais 
and  The  Mountain  Lovers,  /  give  the  life  of 
the  Gael  in  what  is,  to  me,  in  accord  with  my 
own  observation  and  experience,  its  most 
poignant  characteristics — that  is,  of  course,  in 
certain  circumstances,  in  a  particidar  environ- 
ment. Almost  needless  to  say,  I  do  not  pre- 
sent such  mere  sport  of  Destiny  as  Neil  Ross, 
the  Sin-Eater,  or  Neil  MacCodrum  ("  The 
Ddn-nan-Ron")  as  typical  Gaels,  any  more 
than  I  would  have  Gloom  Achanna,  whose 
sombre  personality  colours  three  of  the  tales  of 
Under  the  Dark  Star,  accepted  as  typical  of  the 
perverted  Celt.  They  are  true  in  their  degree; 
that    is    all.     But   I    do    aver    that   Alasdair 

8 


The  Sin-Eater 

Achanna,  the  Anointed  Man;  and  the  fisher- 
men of  lona  of  whom  I  speak;  and  Ian  Mbr 
of  the  Hills;  and  others  akin  to  these — are 
typical.    This,  obviously,  may  be  said  without 
affirming   that  they  are  "rounded  and  conv- 
plete"  types  of  the  Gaelic  Celt.     Of  course 
they  are  nothing  of  the  kind.    This,  also,  may 
be  said:  that  they  are  not  typical  to  the  exclu- 
sion of  other  types.     Could  Ian  Mbr  be  com- 
mon  anywhere f     Are   there  so   many   poet- 
drcamersf    Could  Ethlenn  Stuart   or  Eilidh 
Mclan  be  met  with  in  each  strath,  on  every 
hillside f    Is  the  beautiful  and  one  inevitable 
phrase  to   be  found  on  any  lips?     All  men 
speak  of  love;  but  only  you  have  said  the  su- 
preme thing  of  the  passion  of  love ;  namely, 
that  Passion  is  noble  strength  on  fire.     You 
only  have  said  this.    It  is  individually  charac- 
teristic;  it  is  racially  typical;  and  yet  a  thou- 
sand poets  have  come  and  gone,  a  million  mil- 
lion hearts  have  beat  to  this  chord,  and  the 
phrase   has   waited,   isolate,   for   you.    Is   it 
therefore     not     indicative  F      Whether     with 
phrase,  or  the  lilt  of  a  free  music,  or  with  man 
— there  should  be  no  saying  that  he  or  it  does 
not  exist  because  invisible  through  the  dust  of 
the  common  highway. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  "  the  Celtic 
Fringe  "  is  of  divers  colours.    The  Armorican, 

9 


The  Sin-Eater 

the  Cymric,  the  Gael  of  Ireland,  and  the  Scot- 
tish Gael  are  of  the  same  stock,  but  are  not 
the  same  people.  Even  the  crofter  of  Done- 
gal or  the  fisherman  of  Clare  is  no  more  than 
an  older  or  younger  brother  of  the  Hebridean 
or  the  Highlander;  certainly  they  are  not 
tzvins,  of  an  indistinguishable  likeness.  Some 
of  my  critics,  heedless  of  the  complex  condi- 
tions ivhich  differentiate  the  Irish  and  the 
Scottish  Celt,  complain  of  the  Celtic  gloom 
that  dusks  the  life  of  the  men  and  women  I 
have  tried  to  drazv.  That  may  be  just.  I  wish 
merely  to  say  that  I  have  not  striven  to  de- 
pict the  blither  Irish  Celt.  I  have  sought 
mainly  to  express  something  of  ivhat  I  have 
seen  as  paramount,  something  of  "  the  Celtic 
Gloom  "  which,  to  many  Gaels  if  not  to  all,  is 
so  distinctive  in  the  remote  life  of  a  doomed 
and  passing  race.  Possibly,  though  of  course 
it  is  unlikely  they  should  write  save  out  of 
fulness  of  knozvlcdge,  those  of  my  critics  to 
zvhom  I  allude  Jiave  dzvclt  for  years  among 
these  distant  isles,  intimate  with  the  speech 
and  mind  and  daily  life  and  veiled,  secretive 
inner  nature  of  the  men  and  women  who  in- 
habit them.  I  cannot  judge,  for  I  do  not  pro- 
fess to  know  every  glen  in  the  Highlands,  or 
to  have  set  foot  on  every  one  of  the  Thousand 
Isles. 

lO 


The  Sin-Eater 

A  doomed  and  passing  race.  Yes,  but  not 
wholly  so.  The  Celt  has  at  last  reached  his 
hori::on.  There  is  no  shore  beyond.  He  knows 
it.  This  has  been  the  burden  of  his  song  since 
Malvina  led  the  blind  Oisln  to  his  grave  by  the 
sea.  "  Even  the  Children  of  Light  must  go 
down  into  darkness."  But  this  apparition  of 
a  passing  race  is  no  more  than  the  fulfilment 
of  a  glorious  resurrection  before  our  very 
eyes.  For  the  genius  of  the  Celtic  race  stands 
out  now  zvith  averted  torch,  and  the  light  of 
it  is  a  glory  before  the  eyes,  and  the  flame 
of  it  is  bloivn  into  the  hearts  of  the  mightier 
conquering  people.  The  Celt  falls,  but  his 
spirit  rises  in  the  heart  and  the  brain  of  the 
Anglo-Celtic  peoples,  zvith  whom  are  the  des- 
tinies of  the  generations  to  come. 

Well,  this  is  a  far  cry,  from  one  small  voice 
on  the  hill-slope  of  Dun-I  of  lona,  to  the 
clarion-call  of  the  future!  But,  sure,  even  in 
this  Isle  of  Joy,  as  it  seems  to-day  in  this  daz- 
zle of  golden  light  and  splashing  zvave,  there 
is  all  the  gloom  and  all  the  mystery  zvhich 
lived  in  the  minds  of  the  old  seers  and  bards. 
Yonder,  where  that  thin  spray  quivers  against 
the  thyme-set  cliff,  is  the  Spouting  Cave, 
zvhere  to  this  day  the  Mar-Tarbh.  dread  crea- 
ture of  the  sea,  szvims  at  the  full  of  the  tide. 

II 


The  Sin-Eater 

Beyond,  out  of  sight  behind  these  heights,  is 
Port-na-Churaich,  where,  a  thousand  years 
ago,  Coluniha  landed  in  his  coracle.  Here, 
eastzvard,  is  the  landing-place  for  the  dead  of 
old,  brought  hence,  out  of  Christendom,  for 
sacred  burial  in  the  Isle  of  the  Saints.  All  the 
story  of  Albyn  is  here.  lona  is  the  microcosm 
of  Gaeldom. 

Last  night,  about  the  hour  of  the  sun's  go- 
ing, I  lay  upon  the  heights  near  the  Cave, 
overlooking  the  Machar — the  sandy,  rock- 
frontiered  plain  of  duneland  on  the  west  side 
of  lona,  exposed  to  the  Atlantic.  There  was 
neither  man  nor  beast,  no  living  thing  to  see, 
save  one  solitary  luinian  creature.  This 
brown,  bent,  aged  man  toiled  at  kelp-burning. 
I  watched  the  smoke  till  it  merged  into  the 
sea-mist  that  came  creeping  swiftly  out  of  the 
north,  and  down  from  Dnn-I  eastward.  At 
last  nothing  was  visible.  The  mist  shrouded 
everything.  I  could  hear  the  dull,  rhythmic 
beat  of  the  waves.  That  was  all.  No  sound, 
nothing  visible. 

It  zvas,  or  seemed,  a  long  while  before  a 
rapid  thud-thud  trampled  the  heavy  air.  Then 
I  heard  the  rush,  the  stamping  and  neighing, 
of  some  young  mares,  pasturing  there,  as  they 
raced  to  and  fro,  bezvUdered  or  mayhap  only 
in  play.     A  glimpse  I  caught  of  three,  ivith 

12 


The  Sin-Eater 

Hying  manes  and  tails;  the  others  zvere  blurred 
shadows  only.  A  szvirl,  and  the  mist  dis- 
closed them:  a  szvirl,  and  the  mist  en- 
folded them  again.  Then,  silence  once 
more. 

All  at  once,  though  not  for  a  long  time 
thereafter,  the  mist  rose  and  drifted  seaward. 

All  was  as  before.  The  Kelp-Burner  still 
stood,  stroking  the  smouldering  scazveed. 
Above  him  a  column  ascended,  bluely  spiral, 
dusked  with  gloom  of  shadow. 

The  Kelp-Burner:  who  is  he  but  the  Gael  of 
the  Islesf  Who  but  the  Celt  in  his  sorrow? 
The  mist  falls  and  the  mist  rises.  He  is  there 
all  the  same,  behind  it,  part  of  it:  and  the  col- 
umn of  smoke  is  the  incense  out  of  his  longing 
heart  that  desires  Heaven  and  Earth,  and  is 
dowered  only  with  poverty  and  pain,  hunger 
and  weariness,  a  little  isle  of  the  seas,  a  great 
hope,  and  the  love  of  love. 

In  that  mist  I  had  dreamed  a  dream.  When 
I  woke,  these  strange,  unfamiliar  zvords  were 
upon  my  lips:  Am  Dia  beo,  an  Domhan  ba- 
sacha,'  an  Diomhair  Cinne'-Daonna. 

Am  Dia  beo,  an  Domhan  basacha,  an  Diom- 
hair Cinne'-Daonna :  "  The  Living  God,  the 
dying  World,  and  the  mysterious  Race  of 
Men." 


The  Sin-Eater 

I  knozv  not  zvhat  obscure  and  remote  an- 
cestral memory  rose,  there,  to  the  surface;  hut 
I  imagined  for  a  moment  that  the  Spirit  of  the 
race,  and  not  a  solitary  human  being,  found 
utterance  in  this  so  typical  saying.  It  is  the 
sense  of  an  abiding  spiritual  Presence,  of  a 
zvaning,  a  perishing  World,  and  of  the  mys- 
tery and  incommunicable  destiny  of  Man, 
which  distinguishes  the  ethical  life  of  the 
Celt. 

"  The  Three  Powers''  I  murmured,  as  I 
rose  to  leave  the  place  zvhere  I  was.  "  These 
are  the  three  powers:  the  Living  God,  the 
evanescent  World,  and  Man.  And  somezvhere 
in  the  darkness — an  Dan,  Destiny." 

Yes,  Ma  tha  sin  an  Dan ;  that  is  zvhere  we 
come  to  again.  It  is  Destiny,  then,  that  is  the 
Protagonist  in  the  Celtic  Drama — the  most 
moving,  the  most  poignant  of  all  that  make  up 
the  too  tragic  Tragi-Comedy  of  human  life. 
And  it  is  Destiny,  that  sombre  Demogorgon 
of  the  Gael,  whose  boding  breath,  zvhose 
menace,  zvhose  shadozv,  glooms  so  much  of  the 
remote  life  I  know,  and  hence  glooms  also  this 
book  of  interpretations — for  pages  of  life 
must  either  be  interpretative  or  merely  docu- 
mentary, and  these  follozving  pages  have  for 
the  most  part  been  zvritten  as  by  one  who  re- 
peats, zvith  curious  insistence,  a  haunting,  fa- 

14 


The  Sin-Eater 

miliar,  yet  ever  wild  and  remote  air,  whose 
obscure  meanings  he  would  fain  reiterate,  in- 
terpret. 

You,  of  all  living  writers,  can  best  under- 
stand this;  for  in  you  the  Celtic  genius  hums 
a  pure  flame.  True,  the  Cymric  blood  that  is 
in  you  moves  to  a  more  lightsome  measure 
than  that  of  the  Scottish  Gael,  and  the  acci- 
dents of  temperament  and  life  have  combined 
to  make  you  a  zvriter  for  great  peoples  rather 
than  for  a  people.  But  though  England  ap- 
propriate you  as  her  son,  and  all  the  Anglo- 
Celtic  peoples  are  the  heritors  of  your  genius, 
we  claim  your  brain.  Nozv,  zve  are  a  scattered 
hand.  The  Breton's  eyes  are  slozvly  turning 
from  the  sea,  and  slowly  his  ears  are  forget- 
ting the  whisper  of  the  zvind  around  Menhir 
and  Dolmen.  The  Cornishman  has  lost  his 
language,  and  there  is  nozv  no  bond  between 
him  and  his  ancient  kin.  The  Manxman  has 
ever  been  the  mere  yeoman  of  the  Celtic  chiv- 
alry; hut  even  his  rude  dialect  perishes  year  by 
year.  In  Wales,  a  great  tradition  survives;  in 
Ireland,  a  supreme  tradition  fades  through 
sunset-hued  horizons  to  the  edge  o'  dark;  in 
Celtic  Scotland,  a  passionate  regret,  a  despair- 
ing love  and  longing,  narrozvs  yearly  before  a 
bastard  utilitarianism  zuhich  is  almost  as  great 

15 


The  Sin-Eater 

a  curse  to  our  despoiled  land  as  Calvinistic 
theology  has  been  and  is. 

But  ivith  you,  and  others  not  less  enthusi- 
astic if  less  brilliant,  we  need  not  despair. 
"  The  Englishman  may  trample  down  the 
heather,"  say  the  shepherds  of  Argyll,  "  but 
he  cannot  trample  down  the  wind." 


i6 


The  Sin-Eater 


Sin. 
Taste  this  bread,  this  substance;  tell  me 
Is  it  bread  or  flesh? 

[The  Senses  approach. 

The  Smell. 
Its  smell 
Is  the  smell  of  bread. 

Sin. 

Touch,  come.     Why  tremble? 
Say  what's  this  thou  touchest  ? 

The  Touch. 
Bread. 

Sin. 

Sight,  declare  what  thou  discernest 
In  this  object. 

The  Sight. 
Bread  alone. 

Calderon:  Los  Encantos  de  la  Culpa. 

A  wet  wind  out  of  the  south  mazed  and 
moaned  through  the  sea-mist  that  hung  over 
the  Ross.  In  all  the  bays  and  creeks  was  a 
continuous  weary  lapping  of  water.  There 
was  no  other  sound  anywhere. 

17 


The  Sin-Eater 

Thus  was  it  at  daybreak;  it  was  thus  at 
noon;  thus  was  it  now  in  the  darkening  of 
the  day.  A  confused  thrusting  and  faUing  of 
sounds  through  the  silence  betokened  the  hour 
of  the  setting.  Curlews  wailed  in  the  mist; 
on  the  seething  limpet-covered  rocks  the  skuas 
and  terns  screamed,  or  uttered  hoarse  rasping 
cries.  Ever  and  again  the  prolonged  note  of 
the  oyster-catcher  shrilled  against  the  air,  as 
an  echo  flying  blindly  along  a  blank  wall  of 
cliff.  Out  of  weedy  places,  wherein  the  tide 
sobbed  with  long  gurgling  moans,  came  at  in- 
tervals the  barking  of  a  seal. 

Inland  by  the  hamlet  of  Contullich,  there  is 
a  reedy  tarn  called  the  Loch-a-chaoruinn.^  By 
the  shores  of  this  mournful  water  a  man 
moved.  It  was  a  slow,  weary  walk  that  of 
the  man  Neil  Ross.  He  had  come  from  Dun- 
inch,  thirty  miles  to  the  eastward,  and  had  not 
rested  foot,  nor  eaten,  nor  had  word  of  man 
or  woman  since  his  going  west  an  hour  after 
dawn. 

At  the  bend  of  the  loch  nearest  the  clachan 
he  came  upon  an  old  woman  carrying  peat. 
To  his  reiterated  question  as  to  where  he  was, 
and    if    the    tarn    were    Feur-Lochan    above 

^Contullich  i.e.,  Ceann-nan-tulaich,  "the  end  of 
the  hillocks."  Loch-a-chaoruinn  means  the  loch  of 
the  rowan-trees. 

i8 


The  Sill-Eater 

Fionnaphort,  that  is,  on  the  strait  of  lona  on 
the  west  side  of  the  Ross  of  Mull,  she  did  not 
at  first  make  any  answer.  The  rain  trickled 
down  her  withered  brown  face,  over  which 
the  thin  grey  locks  hung  limply.  It  was  only 
in  the  deep-set  eyes  that  the  flame  of  life  still 
glimmered,  though  that  dimly. 

The  man  had  used  the  English  when  first  he 
spoke,  but  as  though  mechanically.  Suppos- 
ing that  he  had  not  been  understood,  he  re- 
peated his  question  in  the  Gaelic. 

After  a  minute's  silence  the  old  woman  an- 
swered in  the  native  tongue,  but  only  to  put  a 
question  in  return. 

"  I  am  thinking  it  is  a  long  time  since  you 
have  been  in  Zona  ?  " 

The  man  stirred  uneasily. 

"  And  why  is  that,  mother?  "  he  asked,  in  a 
weak  voice  hoarse  with  damp  and  fatigue; 
"  how  is  it  you  will  be  knowing  that  I  have 
been  in  lona  at  all  ?  " 

"  Because  I  knew  your  kith  and  kin  there, 
Neil  Ross." 

"  I  have  not  been  hearing  that  name,  moth- 
er, for  many  a  long  year.  And  as  for  the  old 
face  o'  you,  it  is  unbeknown  to  me." 

"  I  was  at  the  naming  of  you,  for  all  that. 
Well  do  I  remember  the  day  that  Silis  Macal- 
lum  gave  you  birth ;  and  I  was  at  the  house 

19 


The  Sin-Eater 

on  the  croft  of  Ballyrona  when  Murtagh 
Ross,  that  was  your  father,  laughed.  It  was 
an  ill  laughing,  that." 

"  I  am  knowing  it.  The  curse  of  God  on 
him !  " 

"  'Tis  not  the  first,  nor  the  last,  though 
the  grass  is  on  his  head  three  years  agone 
now." 

"  You  that  know  who  I  am  will  be  know- 
ing that  I  have  no  kith  or  kin  now  on 
lona?" 

"  Ay,  they  are  all  under  grey  stone  or  run- 
ning wave.  Donald  your  brother,  and  Mur- 
tagh your  next  brother,  and  little  Silis,  and 
your  mother  Silis  herself  and  your  two 
brothers  of  your  father,  Angus  and  Ian  Ma- 
callum,  and  your  father  IMurtagh  Ross,  and 
his  lawful  childless  wife  Dionaid,  and  his  sis- 
ter Anna,  one  and  all  they  lie  beneath  the 
green  wave  or  in  the  brown  mould.  It  is  said 
there  is  a  curse  upon  all  who  live  at  Ballyrona. 
The  owl  builds  now  in  the  rafters,  and  it  is 
the  big  sea-rat  that  runs  across  the  fireless 
hearth." 

"  It  is  there  I  am  going." 

"  The  foolishness  is  on  you,  Neil  Ross." 

"  Now  it  is  that  I  am  knowing  who  you  are. 
It  is  old  Sheen  Macarthur  I  am  speaking  to." 

"  Tha  mise — it  is  I." 

20 


The  Sin-Eater 

"  And  yon  will  be  alone  now,  too,  I  am 
thinking,  Sheen  ?  " 

"  I  am  alone.  God  took  my  three  boys  at 
the  one  fishing  ten  years  ago,  and  before  there 
was  moonrise  in  the  blackness  of  my  heart  my 
man  went.  It  was  after  the  drowning  of 
Anndra  that  my  croft  was  taken  from  me. 
Then  I  crossed  the  Sound,  and  shared  with 
my  widow  sister,  Elsie  McVurie,  till  she 
went ;  and  then  the  two  cows  had  to  go ;  and 
I  had  no  rent ;  and  was  old." 

In  the  silence  that  followed,  the  rain  drib- 
bled from  the  sodden  bracken  and  dripping 
loneroid.  Big  tears  rolled  slowly  down  the 
deep  lines  on  the  face  of  Sheen.  Once  there 
was  a  sob  in  her  throat,  but  she  put  her  shak- 
ing hand  to  it,  and  it  was  still. 

Neil  Ross  shifted  from  foot  to  foot.  The 
ooze  in  that  marshy  place  squelched  with  each 
restless  movement  he  made.  Beyond  them  a 
plover  wheeled  a  blurred  splatch  in  the  mist, 
crying  its  mournful  cry  over  and  over  and 
over. 

It  was  a  pitiful  thing  to  hear;  ah,  bitter 
loneliness,  bitter  patience  of  poor  old  women. 
That  he  knew  well.  But  he  was  too  weary, 
and  his  heart  was  nigh  full  of  its  own  bur- 
then. The  words  could  not  come  to  his  lips. 
But  at  last  he  spoke. 

21 


The  Sin-Eater 

"  Tlia  mo  ehridhe  goirt,"  he  said  with  tears 
in  his  voice,  as  he  put  his  hand  on  her  bent 
shoulder ;  "  my  heart  is  sore." 

She  put  up  her  old  face  against  his. 

"  '6"  tha  e  ruidhinn  mo  ehridhe,"  she  whis- 
pered— "  it  is  touching  my  heart  you  are." 

After  that  they  walked  on  slowly  through 
the  dripping  mist,  each  dumb  and  brooding 
deep. 

"Where  will  you  be  staying  this  night?" 
asked  Sheen  suddenly,  when  they  had  trav- 
ersed a  wide  boggj'  stretch  of  land ;  adding, 
as  by  an  afterthought — "  ah,  it  is  asking  you 
were  if  the  tarn  there  was  Feur-Lochan.  No  ; 
it  is  Loch-a-chaoruinn,  and  the  clachan  that 
is  near  is  Contullich." 

"Which  way?" 

"  Yonder ;  to  the  right." 

"  And  you  are  not  going  there  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  going  to  the  steading  of  Andrew 
Blair.  Maybe  you  are  for  knowing  it?  It 
is  called  the  Baile-na-Chlais-nambuid-heag."  ^ 

"  I  do  not  remember.  But  it  is  remember- 
ing a  Blair  I  am.  He  was  Adam  the  son  of 
Adam  the  son  of  Robert.  He  and  my  father 
did  many  an  ill  deed  together." 

"  Ay,  to  the  Stones  be  it  said.  Sure,  now, 
there  was  even  till  this  weary  day  no  man  or 

^  The  farm  in  the  hollow  of  the  yellow  flowers. 

22 


The  Sin-Eater 

woman  who  had  a  good  word  for  Adam 
Blair." 

"  And  why  that— why  till  this  day  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  yet  the  third  hour  since  he  went 
into  the  silence." 

Neil  Ross  uttered  a  sound  like  a  stifled 
curse.     For  a  time  he  trudged  wearily  on. 

"  Then  I  am  too  late,"  he  said  at  last,  but 
as  though  speaking  to  himself.  "  I  had  hoped 
to  see  him  face  to  face  again,  and  curse  him 
between  the  eyes.  It  was  he  who  made  Mur- 
tagh  Ross  break  his  troth  to  my  mother,  and 
marry  that  other  woman,  barren  at  that,  God 
be  praised!  And  they  say  ill  of  him,  do 
they?" 

"  Ay,  it  is  evil  that  is  upon  him.  This  crime 
and  that,  God  knows :  and  the  shadow  of  mur- 
der on  his  brow  and  in  his  eyes.  Well,  well, 
'tis  ill  to  be  speaking  of  a  man  in  corpse,  and 
that  near  by.  'Tis  Himself  only  that  knows, 
Neil  Ross." 

"  Maybe  ay,  and  maybe  no.  But  where  is 
it  that  I  can  be  sleeping  this  night,  Sheen 
Macarthur  ?  " 

"  They  will  not  be  taking  a  stranger  at  the 
farm  this  night  of  the  nights,  I  am  thinking. 
There  is  no  place  else,  for  seven  miles  yet, 
when  there  is  the  clachan  before  you  will  be 
coming  to  Fionnaphort.     There  is  the  warm 

23 


The  Sin-Eater 

byre,  Neil  my  man,  or  if  you  can  bide  by  my 
peats  you  may  rest  and  welcome,  though  there 
is  no  bed  for  you,  and  no  food  either  save 
some  of  the  porridge  that  is  over." 

"  And  that  will  do  well  enough  for  me. 
Sheen,  and  Himself  bless  you  for  it." 

And  so  it  was. 

After  old  Sheen  Macarthur  had  given  the 
wayfarer  food — poor  food  at  that,  but  wel- 
come to  one  nigh  starved,  and  for  the  heart- 
some  way  it  was  given,  and  because  of  the 
thanks  to  God  that  was  upon  it  before  even 
spoon  was  lifted — she  told  him  a  lie.  It  was 
the  good  lie  of  tender  love. 

"  Sure  now,  after  all,  Neil  my  man,"  she 
said,  "  it  is  sleeping  at  the  farm  I  ought  to  be, 
for  Maisie  Macdonald,  the  wise-woman,  will 
be  sitting  by  the  corpse,  and  there  will  be  none 
to  keep  her  company.  It  is  there  I  must  be 
going,  and  if  I  am  weary,  there  is  a  good  bed 
for  me  just  beyond  the  dead-board,  which  I 
am  not  minding  at  all.  So  if  it  is  tired  you  are 
sitting  by  the  peats,  lie  down  on  my  bed  there, 
and  have  the  sleep,  and  God  be  with  you." 

With  that  she  went,  and  soundlessly,  for 
Neil  Ross  was  already  asleep,  where  he  sat 
on  an  upturned  claar  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  flame-lit  face  in  his  hands. 

24 


The  Sin-Eater 

The  rain  had  ceased ;  but  the  mist  still  hung 
over  the  land,  though  in  thin  veils  now,  and 
these  slowly  drifting  seaward.  Sheen  stepped 
wearily  along  the  stony  path  that  led  from 
her  bothy  to  the  farm-house.  She  stood  still 
once,  the  fear  upon  her,  for  she  saw  three  or 
four  blurred  yellow  gleams  moving  beyond 
her  eastward  along  the  dyke.  She  knew  what 
they  were — the  corpse-lights  that  on  the  night 
of  death  go  between  the  bier  and  the  place  of 
burial.  More  than  once  she  had  seen  them 
before  the  last  hour,  and  by  that  token  had 
known  the  end  to  be  near. 

Good  Catholic  that  she  was,  she  crossed 
herself  and  took  heart.     Then,  muttering — 

"Crois  nan  nooi  aingeal  leant 
'O  nihullach  mo  chinn 
Gu  craican  mo  bhonn," 

The  cross  of  the  nine  angels  be  about  me, 
From  the  top  of  my  head 
To  the  soles  of  my  feet. 

she  went  on  her  way  fearlessly. 

When  she  came  to  the  White  House  she  en- 
tered by  the  milk-shed  that  was  between  the 
byre  and  the  kitchen.  At  the  end  of  it  was 
a  paved  place,  with  washing-tubs.  At  one  of 
these  stood  a  girl  that  served  in  the  house ;  an 

25 


The  Sin-Eater 

ignorant  lass  called  Jessie  McFall,  out  of 
Oban.  She  was  ignorant,  indeed,  not  to  know 
that  to  wash  clothes  with  a  newly  dead  body 
near  by  was  an  ill  thing  to  do.  Was  it  not  a 
matter  for  the  knowing  that  the  corpse  conld 
hear,  and  might  rise  up  in  the  night  and  clothe 
itself  in  a  clean  white  shroud? 

She  was  still  speaking  to  the  lassie  when 
Alaisie  Macdonald,  the  deid-watcher,  opened 
the  door  of  the  room  behind  the  kitchen,  to 
see  who  it  was  that  was  come.  The  two  old 
women  nodded  silently.  It  was  not  till  Sheen 
was  in  the  closed  room,  midway  in  which 
something  covered  with  a  sheet  lay  on  a  board, 
that  any  word  was  spoken. 

"  Duit  slth  mbr,  Beann  Macdonald." 

"  And  deep  peace  to  you,  too,  Sheen ;  and 
to  him  that  is  there." 

"  Och,  ochone,  mise  'n  diugh;  'tis  a  dark 
hour  this." 

"  Ay,  it  is  bad.  Will  you  have  been  hear- 
ing or  seeing  anything?" 

"  Well,  as  for  that,  I  am  thinking  I  saw 
lights  moving  betwixt  here  and  the  green 
place  over  there." 

"  The  corpse-lights?  " 

"  Well,  it  is  calling  them  that  they  are." 

"  I  thought  they  would  be  out.  And  I  have 
been   hearing   the   noise   of    the   planks — the 

26 


The  Sin-Eater 

cracking  of  the  boards,  you  know,  that  will 
be  used  for  the  coffin  to-morrow." 

A  long  silence  followed.  The  old  women 
had  seated  themselves  by  the  corpse,  their 
cloaks  over  their  heads.  The  room  was  fire- 
less,  and  was  lit  only  by  a  tall  wax  death- 
candle,  kept  against  the  hour  of  the  going. 

At  last  Sheen  began  swaying  slowly  to  and 
fro,  crooning  low  the  while.  "  I  would  not 
be  for  doing  that,  Sheen  Macarthur,"  said  the 
deid-watcher,  in  a  low  voice,  but  meaningly; 
adding,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  the  mice 
have  all  left  the  house."'' 

Sheen  sat  upright,  a  look  half  of  terror,  half 
of  awe  in  her  eyes. 

"  God  save  the  sinful  soul  that  is  hiding," 
she  whispered. 

Well  she  knew  what  Maisie  meant.  If  the 
soul  of  the  dead  be  a  lost  soul  it  knows  its 
doom.  The  house  of  death  is  the  house  of 
sanctuary.  But  before  the  dawn  that  follows 
the  death-night  the  soul  must  go  forth,  whoso- 
ever or  whatsoever  wait  for  it  in  the  homeless, 
shelterless  plains  of  air  around  and  beyond. 
If  it  be  well  with  the  soul,  it  need  have  no 
fear;  if  it  be  not  ill  with  the  soul,  it  may  fare 
forth  with  surety ;  but  if  it  be  ill  with  the  soul, 
ill  will  the  going  be.  Thus  is  it  that  the  spirit 
of  an  evil  man  cannot  stay  and  yet  dare  not 

27 


The  Sin-Eater 

go ;  and  so  it  strives  to  hide  itself  in  secret 
places  anywhere,  in  dark  channels  and  blind 
walls.  And  the  wise  creatures  that  live  near 
man  smell  the  terror,  and  flee.  Maisie  re- 
peated the  saying  of  Sheen;  then,  after  a 
silence,  added : 

"  Adam  Blair  will  not  lie  in  his  grave  for  a 
year  and  a  day,  because  of  the  sins  that  are 
upon  him.  And  it  is  knowing  that,  they  are, 
here.  He  will  be  the  Watcher  of  the  Dead  for 
a  year  and  a  day." 

"  Ay,  sure,  there  will  be  dark  prints  in  the 
dawn-dew  over  yonder." 

Once  more  the  old  women  relapsed  into 
silence.  Through  the  night  there  was  a  sigh- 
ing sound.  It  was  not  the  sea,  which  was  too 
far  ofif  to  be  heard  save  in  a  day  of  storm. 
The  wind  it  was,  that  was  dragging  itself 
across  the  sodden  moors  like  a  wounded  thing, 
moaning  and  sighing. 

Out  of  sheer  weariness.  Sheen  twice  rocked 
forward  from  her  stool,  heavy  with  sleep.  At 
last  Maisie  led  her  over  to  the  niche-bed  op- 
posite, and  laid  her  down  there,  and  waited  till 
the  deep  furrows  in  the  face  relaxed  some- 
what, and  the  thin  breath  laboured  slow  across 
the  fallen  jaw. 

"  Poor  old  woman,"  she  muttered,  heedless 
of  her  own  grey  hairs  and  greyer  years ;  "  a 

28 


The  Sin-Eater 

bitter  bad  thing  it  is  to  be  old,  old  and  weary. 
'Tis  the  sorrow  that ;  God  keep  the  pain  of  it." 

As  for  herself  she  did  not  sleep  at  all  that 
night,  but  sat  between  the  living  and  the  dead, 
with  her  plaid  shrouding  her.  Once,  when 
Sheen  gave  a  low,  terrified  scream  in  her  sleep, 
she  rose,  and  in  a  loud  voice  cried  "  Sheeach- 
ad!  Away  with  you!"  And  with  that  she 
lifted  the  shroud  from  the  dead  man,  and  took 
the  pennies  ofT  the  eyelids,  and  lifted  each  lid ; 
then,  staring  into  these  filmed  wells,  muttered 
an  ancient  incantation  that  would  compel  the 
soul  of  Adam  Blair  to  leave  the  spirit  of 
Sheen  alone,  and  return  to  the  cold  corpse 
that  was  its  coffin  till  the  wood  was  ready. 

The  dawn  came  at  last.  Sheen  slept,  and 
Adam  Blair  slept  a  deeper  sleep,  and  Maisie 
stared  out  of  her  wan  weary  eyes  against  the 
red  and  stormy  flares  of  light  that  came  into 
the  sky. 

When,  an  hour  after  sunrise,  Sheen  Mac- 
arthur  reached  her  bothy,  she  found  Neil 
Ross,  heavy  with  slumber,  upon  her  bed.  The 
fire  was  not  out,  though  no  flame  or  spark  was 
visible,  but  she  stooped  and  blew  at  the  heart 
of  the  peats  till  the  redness  came,  and  once  it 
came  it  grew.  Having  done  this,  she  kneeled 
and  said  a  rune  of  the  morning,  and  after  that 

29 


The  Sin-Eater 

a  prayer,  and  then  a  prayer  for  the  poor  man 
Neil.  She  could  pray  no  more  because  of  the 
tears.  She  rose  and  put  the  meal  and  water 
into  the  pot,  for  the  porridge  to  be  ready 
against  his  awaking.  One  of  the  hens  that 
was  there  came  and  pecked  at  her  ragged 
skirt.  "  Poor  beastie,"  she  said,  "  sure,  that 
will  just  be  the  way  I  am  pulling  at  the  white 
robe  of  the  Mother  o'  God  'Tis  a  bit  meal 
for  you,  cluckie,  and  for  me  a  healing  hand 
upon  my  tears — O,  och,  ochone,  the  tears,  the 
tears !  " 

It  was  not  till  the  third  hour  after  sunrise  of 
that  bleak  day  in  the  winter  of  the  winters 
that  Neil  Ross  stirred  and  arose.  He  ate  in 
silence.  Once  he  said  that  he  smelled  the 
snow  coming  out  of  the  north.  Sheen  said 
no  word  at  all. 

After  the  porridge,  he  took  his  pipe,  but 
there  was  no  tobacco.  All  that  Sheen  had  was 
the  pipeful  she  kept  against  the  gloom  of  the 
Sabbath.  It  was  her  one  solace  in  the  long 
weary  week.  She  gave  him  this,  and  held  a 
burning  peat  to  his  mouth,  and  hungered  over 
the  thin,  rank  smoke  that  curled  upward. 

It  was  within  half  an  hour  of  noon  that, 
after  an  absence,  she  returned. 

"  Not  between  you  and  me,  Neil  Ross,"  she 
began  abruptly,  "  but  just  for  the  asking,  and 

30 


The  Sin-Eater 

what  is  beyond.  Is  it  any  money  you  are  hav- 
ing upon  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Nothing?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Then  how  will  you  be  getting  across  to 
lona?  It  is  seven  long  miles  to  Fionnaphort, 
and  bitter  cold  at  that,  and  you  will  be  need- 
ing food,  and  then  the  ferry,  the  ferry  across 
the  Sound,  you  know." 

"  Ay,  I  know." 

"  What  would  you  do  for  a  silver  piece, 
Neil  my  man  ?  " 

"  You  have  none  to  give  me,  Sheen  Mac- 
arthur,  and  if  you  had,  it  would  not  be  taking 
it  I  would." 

"  Would  you  kiss  a  dead  man  for  a  crown- 
piece — a  crown-piece  of  five  good  shillings?" 

Neil  Ross  stared.  Then  he  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

"  It  is  Adam  Blair  you  are  meaning,  wom- 
an !  God  curse  him  in  death  now  that  he  is  no 
longer  in  life !  " 

Then,  shaking  and  trembling,  he  sat  down 
again,  and  brooded  against  the  dull  red  glow 
of  the  peats. 

But,  when  he  rose,  in  the  last  quarter  be- 
fore noon,  his  face  was  white. 

"  The   dead    are    dead,    Sheen    Macarthur. 

31 


The  Sin-Eater 

They  can  know  or  do  nothing.  I  will  do  it. 
It  is  willed.  Yes,  I  am  going  up  to  the  house 
there.  And  now  I  am  going  from  here.  God 
Himself  has  my  thanks  to  you,  and  my  bless- 
ing too.  They  will  come  back  to  you.  It  is 
not  forgetting  you  I  will  be.     Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,  Neil,  son  of  the  woman  that 
was  my  friend.  A  south  wind  to  you !  Go 
up  by  the  farm.  In  the  front  of  the  house  you 
will  see  what  you  will  be  seeing.  Maisie  Mac- 
donald  will  be  there.  She  will  tell  you  what's 
for  the  telling.  There  is  no  harm  in  it,  sure; 
sure,  the  dead  are  dead.  It  is  praying  for  you 
I  will  be,  Neil  Ross.     Peace  to  you !  " 

"  And  to  you,  Sheen." 

And  with  that  the  man  went. 

When  Neil  Ross  reached  the  byres  of  the 
farm  in  the  wide  hollow,  he  saw  two  figures 
standing  as  though  awaiting  him,  but  each 
alone  and  unseen  of  the  other.  In  front  of 
the  house  was  a  man  he  knew  to  be  Andrew 
Blair;  behind  the  milk-shed  was  a  woman  he 
guessed  to  be  Maisie  Macdonald. 

It  was  the  woman  he  came  upon  first. 

"  Are  you  the  friend  of  Sheen  Macar- 
thur?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper,  as  she  beck- 
oned him  to  the  doorway. 

"  I  am." 

32 


The  Sin-Eater 

"  I  am  knowing  no  names,  or  anything. 
And  no  one  here  will  know  you,  I  am  think- 
ing.    So  do  the  thing,  and  begone." 

"There  is  no  harm  to  it?" 

"  None." 

"  It  will  be  a  thing  often  done,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Ay,  sure." 

"  And  the  evil  does  not  abide  ?  " 

"  No.  The — the — person — the  person  takes 
them  away,  and — " 

"Them?" 

"  For  sure,  man !  Them — the  sins  of  the 
corpse.  He  takes  them  away,  and  are  you  for 
thinking  God  would  let  the  innocent  suffer 
for  the  guilty?  No — the  person — the  Sin- 
Eater,  you  know — takes  them  away  on  him- 
self, and  one  by  one  the  air  of  heaven  washes 
them  away  till  he,  the  Sin-Eater,  is  clean  and 
whole  as  before." 

"  But  if  it  is  a  man  you  hate — if  it  is  a 
corpse  that  is  the  corpse  of  one  who  has  been 
a  curse  and  a  foe — if — " 

"  Sst!  Be  still  now  with  your  foolishness. 
It  is  only  an  idle  saying,  I  am  thinking.  Do  it, 
and  take  the  money,  and  go.  It  will  be  hell 
enough  for  Adam  Blair,  miser  as  he  was,  if  he 
is  for  knowing  that  five  good  shillings  of  his 
money  are  to  go  to  a  passing  tramp,  because 
of  an  old  ancient  silly  tale." 


The  Sin-Eater 

Neil  Ross  laughed  low  at  that.  It  was  for 
pleasure  to  him. 

"  Hush  wi'  ye !  Andrew  Blair  is  waiting 
round  there.  Say  that  I  have  sent  you  round, 
as  I  have  neither  bite  nor  bit  to  give." 

Turning  on  his  heel  Neil  walked  slowly 
round  to  the  front  of  the  house.  A  tall  man 
was  there,  gaunt  and  brown,  with  hairless  face 
and  lank  brown  hair,  but  with  eyes  cold  and 
grey  as  the  sea. 

"  Good  day  to  you  an'  good  faring.  Will 
you  be  passing  this  way  to  anywhere?" 

"  Health  to  you.  I  am  a  stranger  here.  It 
is  on  my  way  to  lona  I  am.  But  I  have  the 
hunger  upon  me.  There  is  not  a  brown  bit  in 
my  pocket.  I  asked  at  the  door  there,  near  the 
byres.  The  woman  told  me  she  could  give  me 
nothing — not  a  penny  even,  worse  luck — nor, 
for  that,  a  drink  of  warm  milk.  'Tis  a  sore 
land  this." 

"  You  have  the  Gaelic  of  the  Isles.  Is  it 
from  lona  you  are  ?  " 

"  It  is  from  the  Isles  of  the  West  I 
come." 

"  From  Tiree? — from  Coll?  " 

"  No." 

"  From  the  Long  Island — or  from  Uist — 
or  maybe  from'  Benbecula  ?  " 

"  No." 

34 


The  Sin-Eater 

"  Oh  well,  sure  it  is  no  matter  to  me.  But 
may  I  be  asking  your  name  ?  " 

"  Macallum." 

"  Do  you  know  there  is  a  death  here,  Macal- 
lum?" 

"  If  I  didn't,  I  would  know  it  now,  because 
of  what  lies  yonder." 

Mechanically,  Andrew  Blair  looked  round. 
As  he  knew,  a  rough  bier  was  there,  that  was 
made  of  a  dead-board  laid  upon  three  milk- 
ing-stools.  Beside  it  was  a  elaar,  a  small  tub 
to  hold  potatoes.  On  the  bier  was  a  corpse, 
covered  with  a  canvas  sheeting  that  looked 
like  a  sail. 

"  He  was  a  worthy  man,  my  father,"  began 
the  son  of  the  dead  man,  slowly ;  "  but  he  had 
his  faults,  like  all  of  us.  I  might  even  be  say- 
ing that  he  had  his  sins,  to  the  Stones  be  it 
said.  You  will  be  knowing,  Macallum,  what 
is  thought  among  the  folk — that  a  stranger, 
passing  by,  may  take  away  the  sins  of  the 
dead,  and  that  too  without  any  hurt  whatever 
— any  hurt  whatever." 

"  Ay,  sure." 

"  And  you  will  be  knowing  what  is  done  ?  " 

"  Ay." 

"  With  the  Bread— and  the  Water " 

"  Ay." 

"  It  is  a  small  thing  to  do.    It  is  a  Christian 

35 


The  Sin-Eater 

thing.  I  would  be  doing  it  myself,  and  that 
gladly ;  but  the — the — passer-by  who " 

"  It  is  talking  of  the  Sin-Eater  you  are?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  for  sure.  The  Sin-Eater  as  he 
is  called — and  a  good  Christian  act  it  is,  for  all 
that  the  ministers  and  the  priests  make  a 
frowning  at  it — the  Sin-Eater  must  be  a 
stranger.  He  must  be  a  stranger,  and  should 
know  nothing  of  the  dead  man,  above  all  bear 
him  no  grudge." 

At  that,  Neil  Ross's  eyes  lightened  for  a 
moment. 

"And  why  that?" 

"  Who  knows  ?  I  have  heard  this,  and  I 
have  heard  that.  If  the  Sin-Eater  was  ha- 
ting the  dead  man  he  could  take  the  sins 
and  fling  them  into  the  sea  and  they  would 
be  changed  into  demons  of  the  air  that 
would  harry  the  flying  soul  till  Judgment- 
Day." 

"  And  how  would  that  thing  be  done  ?  " 

The  man  spake  with  flashing  eyes  and 
parted  lips,  the  breath  coming  swift.  Andrew 
Blair  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  and  hesi- 
tated, before  in  a  cold  voice  he  spoke  again. 

"  That  is  all  folly,  I  am  thinking,  Macal- 
lum.  Maybe  it  is  all  folly,  the  whole  of  it. 
But  see  here,  I  have  no  time  to  be  talking  with 
you.    If  you  will  take  the  bread  and  the  water 

36 


The  Sin-Eater 

you  shall  have  a  good  meal  if  you  want  it,  and 
— and — yes,  look  you,  my  man,  I  will  be  giv- 
ing you  a  shilling  too,  for  luck." 

"  I  will  have  no  meal  in  this  house,  Anndra 
mhic  Adam ;  nor  will  I  do  this  thing  unless 
you  will  be  giving  me  two  silver  half-crowns. 
That  is  the  sum  I  must  have,  or  no  other." 

"Two  half-crowns!  Why,  man,  for  one 
half-crown " 

"  Then  be  eating  the  sins  o'  your  father 
yourself,  Andrew  Blair !     It  is  going  I  am." 

"  Stop,  man  !  Stop,  Macallum.  See  here : 
I  will  be  giving  you  what  you  ask." 

"  So  be  it.     Is  the — are  you  ready  ?  " 

"  Ay,  come  this  way." 

With  that  the  two  men  turned,  and  moved 
slowly  toward  the  bier. 

In  the  doorway  of  the  house  stood  a  man 
and  two  women ;  farther  in,  a  woman ;  and 
at  the  window  to  the  left  the  serving-wench, 
Jessie  McFall,  and  two  men  of  the  farm.  Of 
those  in  the  doorway,  the  man  was  Peter,  the 
half-witted  youngest  brother  of  Andrew  Blair ; 
the  taller  and  older  woman  was  Catreen,  the 
widow  of  Adam  the  second  brother ;  and  the 
thin  slight  woman,  with  staring  eyes  and 
drooping  mouth,  was  Muireall,  the  wife  of 
Andrew.  The  old  woman,  behind  these,  was 
Maisie  Macdonald. 

37 


The  Sin-Eater 

Andrew  Blair  stooped  and  took  a  saucer  out 
of  the  cJaar.  This  he  put  upon  the  covered 
breast  of  the  corpse.  He  stooped  again,  and 
brought  forth  a  thick  square  piece  of  new- 
made  bread.  That  also  he  placed  upon  the 
breast  of  the  corpse.  Then  he  stooped  again, 
and  with  that  he  emptied  a  spoonful  of  salt 
alongside  the  bread. 

"  I  must  see  the  corpse,"  said  Neil  Ross, 
simply. 

"  It  is  not  needful,  Macallum." 

"  I  must  be  seeing  the  corpse,  I  tell  you — 
and  for  that,  too,  the  bread  and  the  water 
should  be  on  the  naked  breast." 

"  No,  no,  man,  it — " 

But  here  a  voice,  that  of  Maisie  the  wise- 
woman,  came  upon  them,  saying  that  the  man 
was  right,  and  that  the  eating  of  the  sins 
should  be  done  in  that  way  and  no  other. 

With  an  ill  grace  the  son  of  the  dead  man 
drew  back  the  sheeting.  Beneath  it  the  corpse 
was  in  a  clean  white  shirt,  a  death-gown  long 
ago  prepared,  that  covered  him  from  his  neck 
to  his  feet,  and  left  only  the  dusky,  yellowish 
face  exposed. 

While  Andrew  Blair  unfastened  the  shirt, 
and  placed  the  saucer  and  the  bread  and  the 
salt  on  the  breast,  the  man  beside  him  stood 
staring  fixedly  on  the  frozen  features  of  the 

38 


The  Sin-Eater 

corpse.  The  new  laird  had  to  speak  to  him 
twice  before  he  heard. 

"  I  am  ready.  And  you,  now  ?  What  is  it 
you  are  muttering  over  against  the  lips  of  the 
dead  ?  " 

"  It  is  giving  him  a  message  I  am.  There 
is  no  harm  in  that,  sure?  " 

"  Keep  to  your  own  folk,  Macallum.  You 
are  from  the  West  you  say,  and  we  are  from 
the  North.  There  can  be  no  messages  be- 
tween you  and  a  Blair  of  Strathmore,  no 
messages  for  you  to  be  giving." 

"  He  that  lies  here  knows  well  the  man  to 
whom  I  am  sending  a,  message — "  and  at  this 
response  Andrew  Blair  scowled  darkly.  He 
would  fain  have  sent  the  man  about  his  busi- 
ness, but  he  feared  he  might  get  no  other. 

"  It  is  thinking  I  am  that  you  are  not  a  Ma- 
callum at  all.  I  know  all  of  that  name  in 
Mull,  lona,  Skye,  and  the  near  isles.  What 
will  the  name  of  your  naming  be,  and  of  your 
father,  and  of  his  place?" 

Whether  he  really  wanted  an  answer,  or 
whether  he  sought  only  to  divert  the  man 
from  his  procrastination,  his  question  had  a 
satisfactory  result. 

"  Well,  now,  it's  ready  I  am,  Anndra  mhic 
Adam." 

With    that,    Andrew    Blair    stooped    once 

39 


The  Sin-Eater 

more,  and  from  the  claar  brought  a  small  jug 
of  water.     From  this  he  filled  the  saucer. 

"  You  know  what  to  say  and  what  to  do, 
Macallum." 

There  was  not  one  there  who  did  not  have 
a  shortened  breath  because  of  the  mystery  that 
was  now  before  them,  and  the  fearfulness  of 
it.  Neil  Ross  drew  himself  up,  erect,  stiff, 
with  white,  drawn  face.  All  who  waited,  save 
Andrew  Blair,  thought  that  the  moving  of  his 
lips  was  because  of  the  prayer  that  was  slip- 
ping upon  them,  like  the  last  lapsing  of  the 
ebb-tide.  But  Blair  was  watching  him  closely, 
and  knew  that  it  was  no  prayer  which  stole  out 
against  the  blank  air  that  was  around  the  dead. 

Slowly  Neil  Ross  extended  his  right  arm. 
He  took  a  pinch  of  the  salt  and  put  it  in  the 
saucer,  then  took  another  pinch  and  sprinkled 
it  upon  the  bread.  His  hand  shook  for  a  mo- 
ment as  he  touched  the  saucer.  But  there  was 
no  shaking  as  he  raised  it  toward  his  lips,  or 
when  he  held  it  before  him  when  he  spoke. 

''  With  this  water  that  has  salt  in  it,  and  has 
lain  on  thy  corpse,  O  Adam  mhic  Anndra 
mhic  Adam  Mor,  I  drink  away  all  the  evil 
that  is  upon  thee."  There  was  throbbing  si- 
lence while  he  paused — "  and  may  it  be  upon 
me,  and  not  upon  thee,  if  with  this  water  it 
cannot  flow  away." 

40 


The  Sin- Eater 

Thereupon  he  raised  the  saucer  and  passed 
it  thrice  round  the  head  of  the  corpse  sun- 
ways,  and  having-  done  this,  Hfted  it  to  his  Hps 
and  drank  as  much  as  his  mouth  would  hold. 
Thereafter  he  poured  the  remnant  over  his 
left  hand,  and  let  it  trickle  to  the  ground. 
Then  he  took  the  piece  of  bread.  Thrice,  too, 
he  passed  it  round  the  head  of  the  corpse  sun- 
ways. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  the  man  by  his 
side,  then  at  the  others  who  watched  him  with 
beating  hearts. 

With  a  loud  clear  voice  he  took  the  sins. 

"  Thoir  dhomh  do  ciontachd,  O  Adam  mhic 
Anndra  mhic  Adam  Mor!  Give  me  thy  sins 
to  take  away  from  thee !  Lo,  now,  as  I  stand 
here,  I  break  this  bread  that  has  lain  on  thee 
in  corpse,  and  I  am  eating  it,  I  am,  and  in 
that  eating  I  take  upon  me  the  sins  of  thee,  O 
man  that  was  alive  and  is  now  white  with  the 
stillness !  " 

Thereupon  Neil  Ross  broke  the  bread  and 
ate  of  it,  and  took  upon  himself  the  sins  of 
Adam  Blair  that  was  dead.  It  was  a  bitter 
swallowing,  that.  The  remainder  of  the  bread 
he  crumbled  in  his  hand,  and  threw  it  on  the 
ground,  and  trod  upon  it.  Andrew  Blair  gave 
a  sigh  of  relief.  His  cold  eyes  lightened  with 
malice. 

41 


The  Sin-Eater 

"  Be  off  with  you,  now,  Macallum.  We  are 
wanting  no  tramps  at  the  farm  here,  and  per- 
haps you  had  better  not  be  trying  to  get  work 
this  side  lona,  for  it  is  known  as  the  Sin- 
Eater  you  will  be,  and  that  won't  be  for  the 
helping,  I  am  thinking !  There :  there  are  the 
two  half-crowns  for  you — and  may  they  bring 
you  no  harm,  you  that  are  Scapegoat  now !  " 

The  Sin-Eater  turned  at  that,  and  stared 
like  a  hill-bull.  Scapegoat!  Ay,  that's  what 
he  was.  Sin-Eater,  scapegoat !  Was  he  not, 
too,  another  Judas,  to  have  sold  for  silver  that 
which  was  not  for  the  selling?  No,  no,  for 
sure  Maisie  Macdonald  could  tell  him  the  rune 
that  would  serve  for  the  easing  of  this  bur- 
den.    He  would  soon  be  quit  of  it. 

Slowly  he  took  the  money,  turned  it  over, 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  I  am  going,  Andrew  Blair,"  he  said 
quietly ;  "  I  am  going,  now.  I  will  not  say  to 
him  that  is  there  in  the  silence,  A  chuid  do 
Pharas  da! — nor  will  I  say  to  you,  Gii'n 
gleidheadh  Dia  thu — nor  will  I  say  to  this 
dwelling  that  is  the  home  of  thee  and  thine, 
Gti'n  beannaicheadh  Dia  an  tigh!  "  ^ 

'  ( I )  A  chuid  do  Pharas  da!  "His  share  of  heaven 
be  his."  (2)  Gu'n  gleidheadh  Dia  thu!  "May  God 
preserve  you."  (3)  Gu'n  beannaicheadh  Dia  an 
tigh!  God's  blessing  on  this  house." 

42 


The  Sin-Eater 

.  Here  there  was  a  pause.  All  listened.  An- 
drew Blair  shifted  uneasily,  the  furtive  eyes  of 
him  going  this  way  and  that  like  a  ferret  in 
the  grass. 

"  But,  Andrew  Blair,  I  will  say  this ;  when 
you  fare  abroad,  Droch  caoidh  ort!  and  when 
you  go  upon  the  water,  Gaoth  gun  direadh 
ort!  Ay,  ay,  Anndra  mhic  Adam,  Dia  ad 
aghaidh  's  ad  aodann — agns  bas  dunach  ort! 
Dhonas's  dholas  ort,  agus  leat-sa!"'^ 

The  bitterness  of  these  words  was  like  snow 
in  June  upon  all  there.  They  stood  amazed. 
None  spoke.     No  one  moved, 

Neil  Ross  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  with  a 
bright  light  in  his  eyes  walked  away  from  the 
dead  and  the  living.  He  went  by  the  byres, 
whence  he  had  come.  Andrew  Blair  remained 
where  he  was,  now  glooming  at  the  corpse, 
now  biting  his  nails  and  staring  at  the  damp 
sods  at  his  feet. 

When  Neil  reached  the  end  of  the  milk-shed 
he  saw  Maisie  Macdonald  there,  waiting. 

"  These    were    ill    sayings    of    yours,    Neil 

'  (i)  Droch  caoidh  ort!  "May  a  fatal  accident 
happen  to  you"  (lit.  "Bad  moan  on  you").  (2) 
Gaoth  gun  direadh  ort!  "May  you  drift  to  your 
drowning"  (lit.  "Wind  without  direction  on  you"). 
(3)  Dia  ad  aghaidh,  etc!  "God  against  thee  and  in 
thy  face — and  may  a  death  of  woe  be  yours.  Evil 
and  sorrow  to  thee  and  thine ! ' ' 

43 


The  Sin-Eater 

Ross,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  so  that  she 
might  not  be  overheard  from  the  house. 

"  So,  it  is  knowing  me  you  are." 

"  Sheen  Macarthur  told  me." 

"  I  have  good  cause." 

"  That  is  a  true  word.     I  know  it." 

"  Tell  me  this  thing.  What  is  the  rune  that 
is  said  for  the  throwing  into  the  sea  of  the 
sins  of  the  dead  ?  See  here,  Maisie  Macdon- 
ald.  There  is  no  money  of  that  man  that  I 
would  carry  a  mile  with  me.  Here  it  is.  It 
is  yours,  if  you  will  tell  me  that  rune." 

Maisie  took  the  money  hesitatingly.  Then, 
stooping,  she  said  slowly  the  few  lines  of  the 
old,  old  rune. 

"Will  you  be  remembering  that?" 

"  It  is  not  forgetting  it  I  will  be,  Maisie." 

"  Wait  a  moment.  There  is  some  warm 
milk  here." 

With  that  she  went,  and  then,  from  within, 
beckoned  to  him  to  enter. 

"  There  is  no  one  here,  Neil  Ross.  Drink 
the  milk." 

He  drank:  and  while  he  did  so  she  drew  a 
leather  pouch  from  some  hidden  place  in  her 
dress. 

"  And  now  I  have  this  to  give  you." 

She  counted  out  ten  pennies  and  two  far- 
things. 

44 


The  Sin-Eater 

"  It  is  all  the  coppers  I  have.  You  are 
welcome  to  them.  Take  them,  friend  of  my 
friend.  They  will  give  you  the  food  you 
need,  and  the  ferry  across  the  Sound." 

"  I  will  do  that,  Maisie  Macdonald,  and 
thanks  to  you.  It  is  not  forgetting  it  I  will 
be,  nor  you,  good  woman.  And  now,  tell  me : 
Is  it  safe  that  I  am  ?  He  called  me  a  '  scape- 
goat,' he,  Andrew  Blair !  Can  evil  touch  me 
between  this  and  the  sea?  " 

"  You  must  go  to  the  place  where  the  evil 
was  done  to  you  and  yours ;  and  that,  I  know, 
is  on  the  west  side  of  lona.  Go,  and  God  pre- 
serve you.  But  here,  too,  is  a  sian  that  will 
be  for  the  safety." 

Thereupon  with  swift  mutterings  she  said 
this  charm :  an  old,  familiar  sian  against  Sud- 
den Harm : 
"  Sian  a  chuir  Moire  air  Mac  art, 

Sian  ro'  marbhadh,  sian  ro'  lot  ort, 

Sian  eadar  a'  chlioch  's  a'  ghlun, 

Sian  nan  Tri  ann  an  aon  ort, 

O  mhullach  do  chinn  gii  bonn  do  chois  ort: 

Sian  seachd  cadar  a.  h-aon  ort, 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  dha  ort, 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  tri  ort, 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  ceithir  ort, 

Sian  seachd  eadar  a  coig  ort, 

Sian  seachd  cadar  a  sia  ort, 

Sian  seachd  paidir  nan  seach  paidir  dot  deisctl  ri 
diugh  narach  ort,  ga  do  ghleidheadh  bho  bheud  's  bho 
mhi-thapadh!  " 

45 


The  Sin-Eater 

Scarcely   had   she   finished  before   she  heard 
heavy  steps  approaching. 

"  Away  with  you,"  she  whispered ;  repeat- 
ing in  a  loud  angry  tone,  "  Away  with  you ! 
Seachad!   Seachad!  " 

And  with  that  Neil  Ross  slipped  from  the 
milk-shed  and  crossed  the  yard,  and  was  be- 
hind the  byres,  before  Andrew  Blair,  with  sul- 
len mien  and  swift  wild  eyes,  strode  from  the 
house. 

It  was  with  a  grim  smile  on  his  face  that 
Neil  tramped  down  the  wet  heather  till  he 
reached  the  high  road,  and  fared  thence  as 
through  a  marsh  because  of  the  rains  there 
had  been. 

For  the  first  mile  he  thought  of  the  angry 
mind  of  the  dead  man,  bitter  at  paying  of  the 
silver.  For  the  second  mile  he  thought  of  the 
evil  that  had  been  wrought  for  him  and  his. 
For  the  third  mile  he  pondered  over  all  that 
he  had  heard,  and  done,  and  taken  upon  him 
that  day. 

Then  he  sat  down  upon  a  broken  granite- 
heap  by  the  way,  and  brooded  deep,  till  one 
hour  went,  and  then  another,  and  the  third 
was  upon  him. 

A  man  driving  two  calves  came  toward  him 
out  of  the  west.  He  did  not  hear  or  see.  The 
man  stopped,  spoke  again.     Neil  gave  no  an- 

46 


The  Sin-Eater 

swer.  The  drover  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
hesitated,  and  walked  slowly  on,  often  look- 
ing back. 

An  hour  later  a  shepherd  came  by  the  way 
he  himself  had  tramped.  He  was  a  tall, 
gaunt  man  with  a  squint.  The  small  pale- 
blue  eyes  glittered  out  of  a  mass  of  red  hair 
that  almost  covered  his  face.  He  stood  still 
opposite  Neil,  and  leaned  on  his  cromak. 

"  Latha  math  leaf,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  wish 
you  good  day." 

Neil  glanced  at  him,  but  did  not  speak. 
"  What  is  your  name,  for  I  seem  to  know 
you  ?  " 

But  Neil  had  already  forgotten  him.  The 
shepherd  took  out  his  snuff-mull,  helped  him- 
self, and  handed  the  mull  to  the  lonely  way- 
farer.    Neil  mechanically  helped  himself. 

"Am  bheil  thu  'dol  do  Fhionphortf  "  cried 
the  shepherd  again,  "  are  you  going  to  Fion- 
naphort  ?  " 

"  Tha  mise  'dol  a  dh'  I-challum-chille," 
Neil  answered  in  a  low,  weary  voice,  and  as  a 
man  adream,  "  I  am  on  my  way  to  lona." 

"  I  am  thinking  I  know  now  who  you  are. 
You  are  the  man  Macallum." 

Neil  looked,  but  did  not  speak.  His  eyes 
dreamed  against  what  the  other  could  not  see 
or  know.     The  shepherd  called  angrily  to  his 

47 


The  Sin-Eater 

dogs  to  keep  the  sheep  from  straying;  then, 
with  a  resentful  air,  turned  to  his  victim, 

"  You  are  a  silent  man  for  sure,  you  are. 
I'm  hoping  it  is  not  the  curse  upon  you  al- 
ready." 

"What  curse?" 

"  Ah,  that  has  brought  the  wind  against  the 
mist !     I  was  thinking  so  !  " 

"What  curse?" 

"  You  are  the  man  that  was  the  Sin-Eater 

over  there  ?  " 

"  Ay." 

"  The  man  Macallum?  " 

"  Ay." 

"  Strange  it  is,  but  three  days  ago  I  saw 
you  in  Tobermory,  and  heard  you  give  your 
name  as  Neil  Ross,  to  an  lona  man  that  was 
there." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sure,  it  is  nothing  to  me.  But  they 
say  the  Sin-Eater  should  not  be  a  man  with  a 
hidden  lump  in  his  pack."  ^ 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  For  the  dead  know,  and  are  content. 
There  is  no  shaking  off  any  sins,  then:  for 
that  man." 

"  It  is  a  lie." 

>  i.e.  with  a  criminal  secret,  or  an  undiscovered 
crime. 

48 


The  Sin-Eater 

"  Maybe  ay,  and  maybe  no." 

"  Well,  have  you  more  to  be  saying  to  me  ? 
I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  company,  but  it 
is  not  needing  it  I  am,  though  no  offence." 

"  Och,  man,  there's  no  offence  between  you 
and  me.  Sure,  there's  lona  in  me,  too,  for  the 
father  of  my  father  married  a  woman  that 
was  the  granddaughter  of  Tomais  Macdon- 
ald,  who  was  a  fisherman  there.  No,  no,  it  is 
rather  warning  you  I  would  be." 

"And  for  what?" 

"  Well,  well,  just  because  of  that  laugh  I 
heard  about." 

"  What  laugh  ?  " 

"  The  laugh  of  Adam  Blair  that  is  dead." 

Neil  Ross  stared,  his  eyes  large  and  wild. 
He  leaned  a  little  forward.  No  word  came 
from  him.  The  look  that  was  on  his  face  was 
the  question. 

"  Yes :  it  was  this  way.  Sure,  the  telling 
of  it  is  just  as  I  heard  it.  After  you  ate  the 
sins  of  Adam  Blair,  the  people  there  brought 
out  the  coffin.  When  they  were  putting  him 
into  it,  he  was  as  stiff  as  a  sheep  dead  in  the 
snow — and  just  like  that,  too,  with  his  eyes 
wide  open.  Well,  some  one  saw  you  tramp- 
ling the  heather  down  the  slope  that  is  in  front 
of  the  house,  and  said,  '  It  is  the  Sin-Eater ! ' 
With   that,   Andrew   Blair  sneered,   and   said, 

49 


The  Sin-Eater 

*  Ay,  'tis  the  scapegoat  he  is ! '  Then,  after  a 
while,  he  went  on :  '  The  Sin-Eater  they  call 
him;  ay,  just  so;  and  a  bitter  good  bargain  it 
is,  too,  if  all's  true  that's  thought  true ! ' — and 
with  that  he  laughed,  and  then  his  wife  that 
was  behind  him  laughed,  and  then — " 

"Weel,  what  then?" 

"  Well,  'tis  Himself  that  hears  and  knows  if 
it  is  true!  But  this  is  the  thing  I  was  told: 
After  that  laughing  there  was  a  stillness,  and 
a  dread.  For  all  there  saw  that  the  corpse 
had  turned  its  head  and  was  looking  after  you 
as  you  went  down  the  heather.  Then,  Neil 
Ross,  if  that  be  your  true  name,  Adam  Blair 
that  was  dead  put  up  his  white  face  against 
the  sky,  and  laughed." 

At  this,  Ross  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  gasp- 
ing sob. 

"  It  is  a  lie,  that  thing,"  he  cried,  shaking 
his  fist  at  the  shepherd,  "  it  is  a  lie." 

"  It  is  no  lie.  And  by  the  same  token,  An- 
drew Blair  shrank  back  white  and  shaking, 
and  his  woman  had  the  swoon  upon  her,  and 
who  knows  but  the  corpse  might  have  come 
to  life  again  had  it  not  been  for  Maisie  Mac- 
donald,  the  deid-watcher,  who  clapped  a  hand- 
ful of  salt  on  his  eyes,  and  tilted  the  coffin  so 
that  the  bottom  of  it  slid  forward  and  so  let 
the  whole  fall  flat  on  the  ground,  with  Adam 

50 


The  Sin-Eater 

Blair  in  it  sideways,  and  as  likely  as  not  curs- 
ing and  groaning  as  his  wont  was,  for  the 
hurt  both  to  his  old  bones  and  his  old  ancient 
dignity." 

Ross  glared  at  the  man  as  though  the  mad- 
ness was  upon  him.  Fear,  and  horror,  and 
fierce  rage,  swung  him  now  this  way  and  now 
that. 

"  What  will  the  name  of  you  be,  shepherd  ?  " 
he  stuttered  huskily. 

"  It  is  Eachainn  Gilleasbuig  I  am  to  our- 
selves, and  the  English  of  that  for  those  who 
have  no  Gaelic  is  Hector  Gillespie ;  and  I  am 
Eachainn  mac  Ian  mac  Alasdair,  of  Srath- 
sheean,  that  is  where  Sutherland  lies  against 
Ross." 

"  Then  take  this  thing,  and  that  is,  the  curse 
of  the  Sin-Eater !  And  a  bitter  bad  thing  may 
it  be  upon  you  and  yours !  " 

And  with  that  Neil  the  Sin-Eater  flung  his 
hand  up  into  the  air,  and  then  leaped  past  the 
shepherd,  and  a  minute  later  was  running 
through  the  frightened  sheep,  with  his  head 
low,  and  a  white  foam  on  his  lips,  and  his  eyes 
red  with  blood  as  a  seal's  that  has  the  death- 
wound  on  it. 

On  the  third  day  of  the  seventh  month  from 
that  day,  Aulay  Macneil,  coming  into  Ballie- 

51 


The  Sin-Eater 

more  of  lona  from  the  west  side  of  the  island, 
said  to  old  Ronald  AlacCormick,  that  was  the 
father  of  his  wife,  that  he  had  seen  Neil  Ross 
again,  and  that  he  was  "  absent  " — for  though 
he  had  spoken  to  him,  Neil  would  not  answer, 
but  only  gloomed  at  him  from  the  wet  weedy 
rock  where  he  sat. 

The  going  back  of  the  man  had  loosed  every 
tongue  that  was  in  lona.  When,  too,  it  was 
known  that  he  was  wrought  in  some  terrible 
way,  if  not  actually  mad,  the  islanders  whis- 
pered that  it  was  because  of  the  sins  of  Adam 
Blair.  Seldom  or  never  now  did  they  speak 
of  him  by  his  name,  but  simply  as  "  The  Sin- 
Eater."  The  thing  was  not  so  rare  as  to  cause 
this  strangeness,  nor  did  many  (and  perhaps 
none  did)  think  that  the  sins  of  the  dead  ever 
might  or  could  abide  with  the  living  who  had 
merely  done  a  good  Christian,  charitable 
thing.     But  there  was  a  reason. 

Not  long  after  Neil  Ross  had  come  again 
to  lona,  and  had  settled  down  in  the  ruined 
roofless  house  on  the  croft  of  Ballyrona,  just 
like  a  fox  or  a  wild-cat,  as  the  saying  was, 
he  was  given  fishing-work  to  do  by  Aulay 
Macneil,  who  lived  at  Ard-an-teine,  at  the 
rocky  north  end  of  the  Machar  or  plain  that 
is  on  the  west  Atlantic  coast  of  the  island. 

One  moonlit   night,   either  the   seventh  or 

52 


The  Sin-Eater 

the  ninth  after  the  earthing  of  Adam  Blair  at 
his  own  place  in  the  Ross,  Aulay  Macneil  saw 
Neil  Ross  steal  out  of  the  shadow  of  Bally- 
rona  and  make  for  the  sea,  Macneil  was 
there,  by  the  rocks,  mending  a  lobster-creel. 
Pie  had  gone  there  because  of  the  sadness. 
Well,  when  he  saw  the  Sin-Eater  he  watched. 

Neil  crept  from  rock  to  rock  till  he  reached 
the  last  fang  that  churns  the  sea  into  yeast 
when  the  tide  sucks  the  land,  just  opposite. 

Then  he  called  out  something  that  Aulay 
Macneil  could  not  catch.  With  that  he  springs 
up,  and  throws  his  arms  above  him. 

"  Then,"  says  Aulay,  when  he  tells  the  tale, 
"  it  was  like  a  ghost  he  was.  The  moonshine 
was  on  his  face  like  the  curl  o'  a  wave. 
White !  there  is  no  whiteness  like  that  of  the 
human  face.  It  was  whiter  than  the  foam 
about  the  skerry  it  was,  whiter  than  the  moon- 
shining,  whiter  than — well,  as  white  as  the 
painted  letters  on  the  black  boards  of  the  fish- 
ing-cobles. There  he  stood,  for  all  that  the 
sea  was  about  him,  the  slip-slop  waves  leapin' 
wild,  and  the  tide  making  too  at  that.  He 
was  shaking  like  a  sail  two  points  off  the 
wind.  It  was  then  that  all  of  a  sudden  he 
called  in  a  womany  screamin'  voice : 

"  '  I  am  throwing  the  sins  of  Adam  Blair 
into  the  midst  of  ye,  white  dogs  o'  the  sea ! 

53 


The  Sin-Eater 

Drown  them,  tear  them,  drag  them  away  out 
into  the  black  deeps !  Ay,  ay,  ay,  ye  dancin' 
wild  waves,  this  is  the  third  time  I  am  doing 
it;  and  now  there  is  none  left,  no,  not  a  sin, 
not  a  sin. 

'O-hi,  0-ri,  dark  tide  o'  the  sea, 

I  am  giving  the  sins  of  a  dead  man  to  thee ! 

By  the  Stones,  by  the  Wind,  by  the  Fire,  by  the 

Tree, 
From  the  dead  man's  sins  set  me  free,  set  me  free! 
Adam  mhic  Anndra  mhic  Adam  and  me, 
Set  us  free !     Set  us  free ! ' 

"  Ay,  sure,  the  Sin-Eater  sang  that  over 
and  over;  and  after  the  third  singing  he 
swung  his  arms  and  screamed : 

'And  hsten  to  me,  black  waters  an'  running  tide, 
That  rune  is  the  good  rune  told  me  by  Maisie  the 

wise. 
And  I  am  Neil,  the  son  of  Silis  Macallum, 
By  the  black-hearted  evil  man  Murtagh  Ross, 
That  was  the  friend  of  Adam  Mac  Anndra,  God 

against  him!' 

"  And  with  that  he  scrambled  and  fell  into  the 
sea.  But,  as  I  am  Aulay  Mac  Luais  and  no 
other,  he  was  up  in  a  moment,  an'  swimmin' 
like  a  seal,  and  then  over  the  rocks  again,  an' 
away  back  to  that  lonely  roofless  place  once 
more,  laughing  wild  at  times,  an'  muttering 
an'  whispering." 

54 


The  Sin-Eater 

It  was  this  tale  of  Aulay  Macneil's  that 
stood  between  Neil  Ross  and  the  islefolk. 
There  was  something  behind  all  that,  they 
whispered  one  to  another. 

So  it  was  always  the  Sin-Eater  he  was 
called  at  last.  None  sought  him.  The  few 
children  who  came  upon  him,  now  and  again, 
fled  at  his  approach,  or  at  the  very  sight  of 
him.  Only  Aulay  Macneil  saw  him  at  times, 
and  had  word  of  him. 

After  a  month  had  gone  by,  all  knew  that 
the  Sin-Eater  was  wrought  to  madness,  be- 
cause of  this  awful  thing;  the  burden  of  Adam 
Blair's  sins  would  not  go  from  him !  Night 
and  day  he  could  hear  them  laughing  low,  it 
was  said. 

But  it  was  the  quiet  madness.  He  went  to 
and  fro  like  a  shadow  in  the  grass,  and  almost 
as  soundless  as  that,  and  as  voiceless.  More 
and  more  the  name  of  him  grew  as  a  terror. 
There  were  few  folk  on  that  wild  west  coast 
of  lona,  and  these  few  avoided  him  when  the 
word  ran  that  he  had  knowledge  of  strange 
things,  and  converse,  too,  with  the  secrets  of 
the  sea. 

One  day  Aulay  Macneil,  in  his  boat,  but 
dumb  with  amaze  and  terror  for  him,  saw 
him  at  high-tide  swimming  on  a  long  rolling 
wave  right  into  the  hollow  of  the  Spouting 

55 


The  Sin-Eater 

Cave.  In  the  memory  of  man,  no  one  had 
done  this  and  escaped  one  of  three  things :  a 
snatching  away  into  obHvion,  a  strangled 
death,  or  madness.  The  islanders  know  that 
there  swims  into  the  cave  at  full  tide  a  Mar- 
Tarbh,  a  dreadful  creature  of  the  sea  that 
some  call  a  kelpie ;  only  it  is  not  a  kelpie, 
which  is  like  a  woman,  but  rather  is  a  sea- 
bull,  offspring  of  the  cattle  that  are  never 
seen.  111  indeed  for  any  sheep  or  goat,  ay  or 
even  dog  or  child,  if  any  happens  to  be 
leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  Spouting 
Cave  when  the  Mar-Tarbh  roars ;  for,  of  a 
surety,  it  will  fall  in  and  straightway  be 
devoured. 

With  awe  and  trembling  Aulay  listened  for 
the  screaming  of  the  doomed  man.  It  was 
full  tide,  and  the  sea-beast  would  be  there. 

The  minutes  passed,  and  no  sign.  Only 
the  hollow  booming  of  the  sea,  as  it  moved 
like  a  baffled  blind  giant  round  the  cavern- 
bases  ;  only  the  rush  and  spray  of  the  water 
flung  up  the  narrow  shaft  high  into  the  windy 
air  above  the  cliff  it  penetrates. 

At  last  he  saw  what  looked  like  a  mass  of 
sea-weed  swirled  out  on  the  surge.  It  was 
the  Sin-Eater.  With  a  leap,  Aulay  was  at  his 
oars.  The  boat  swung  through  the  sea.  Just 
before  Neil  Ross  was  about  to  sink  for  the 

56 


The  Sin-Eater 

second  time,  he  caught  him,  and  dragged  him 
into  the  boat. 

But  then,  as  ever  after,  nothing  was  to  be 
got  out  of  the  Sin-Eater  save  a  single  saying : 
"  Tha  e  lamhan  fuar!  Tlia  e  lamhan  fuar!  " 
"  It  has  a  cold,  cold  hand !  " 

The  telling  of  this  and  other  tales  left  none 
free  upon  the  island  to  look  upon  the  '*  scape- 
goat "  save  as  one  accursed. 

It  was  in  the  third  month  that  a  new  phase 
of  his  madness  came  upon  Neil  Ross. 

The  horror  of  the  sea  and  the  passion  for 
the  sea  came  over  him  at  the  same  happening. 
Oftentimes  he  would  race  along  the  shore, 
screaming  wild  names  to  it,  now  hot  with  hate 
and  loathing,  now  as  the  pleading  of  a  man 
with  the  woman  of  his  love.  And  strange 
chants  to  it,  too,  were  upon  his  lips.  Old,  old 
lines  of  forgotten  runes  were  overheard  by 
Aulay  Macneil,  and  not  Aulay  only — lines 
wherein  the  ancient  sea-name  of  the  island, 
loiia,  that  was  given  to  it  long  before  it  was 
called  lona,  or  any  other  of  the  nine  names 
that  are  said  to  belong  to  it,  occurred  again 
and  again. 

The  flowing  tide  it  was  that  wrought  him 
thus.  At  the  ebb  he  would  wander  across 
the  weedy  slabs  or  among  the  rocks,  silent, 
and  more  like  a  lost  duinshce  than  a  man. 

57 


The  Sin-Eater 

Then  again  after  three  months  a  change  in 
his  madness  came.  None  knew  what  it  was, 
though  Aulay  said  that  the  man  moaned  and 
moaned  because  of  the  awful  burden  he  bore. 
No  drowning  seas  for  the  sins  that  could  not 
be  washed  away,  no  grave  for  the  live  sins 
that  would  be  quick  till  the  Day  of  the  Judg- 
ment! 

For  weeks  thereafter  he  disappeared.  As 
to  where  he  was,  it  is  not  for  the  knowing. 

Then  at  last  came  that  third  day  of  the  sev- 
enth month  when,  as  I  have  said,  Aulay  Mac- 
neil  told  old  Ronald  MacCormick  that  he  had 
seen  the  Sin-Eater  again. 

It  was  only  a  half-truth  that  he  told,  though. 
For  after  he  had  seen  Neil  Ross  upon  the 
rock,  he  had  followed  him  when  he  rose  and 
wandered  back  to  the  roofless  place  which  he 
haunted  now  as  of  yore.  Less  wretched  a 
shelter  now  it  was,  because  of  the  summer 
that  was  come,  though  a  cold  wet  summer  at 
that. 

"  Is  that  you,  Neil  Ross?  "  he  had  asked,  as 
he  peered  into  the  shadows  among  the  ruins 
of  the  house, 

"  That's  not  my  name,"  said  the  Sin-Eater ; 
and  he  seemed  as  strange  then  and  there,  as 
though  he  were  a  castaway  from  a  foreign 
ship. 

58 


The  Sin-Eater 

"  And  what  will  it  be  then,  you  that  are  my 
friend,  and  sure  knowing  me  as  Aulay  Mac 
Luais — Aulay  Macneil  that  never  grudges  you 
bit  or  sup?  " 

"  /  am  Judas." 

"  And  at  that  word,"  says  Aulay  Macneil, 
when  he  tells  the  tale,  "  at  that  word  the  pulse 
in  my  heart  was  like  a  bat  in  a  shut  room. 
But  after  a  bit  I  took  up  the  talk. 

" '  Indeed,'  I  said^  '  and  I  was  not  for 
knowing  that.  May  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask 
whose  son,  and  of  what  place?  ' 

"  But  all  he  said  to  me  was,  '  /  am  Judas'  " 

"  Well,  I  said,  to  comfort  him,  '  Sure,  it's 
not  such  a  bad  name  in  itself,  though  I  am 
knowing  some  which  have  a  more  homelike 
sound.'     But  no,  it  was  no  good. 

"  '  I  am  Judas.  And  because  I  sold  the  Son 
of  God  for  five  pieces  of  silver — '  But  here  I 
interrupted  him  and  said,  '  Sure  now,  Neil, — I 
mean,  Judas — it  was  eight  times  five.'  Yet 
the  simpleness  of  his  sorrow  prevailed,  and  I 
listened  with  the  wet  in  my  eyes. 

"  '  I  am  Judas.  And  because  I  sold  the  Son 
of  God  for  five  silver  shillings,  He  laid  upon 
me  all  the  nameless  black  sins  of  the  world. 
And  that  is  why  I  am  bearing  them  till  the 
Day  of  Days.' " 

59 


The  Sin-Eater 

And  this  was  the  end  of  the  Sin-Eater — for 
I  will  not  tell  the  long  story  of  Aulay  Mac- 
neil,  that  gets  longer  and  longer  every  win- 
ter, but  only  the  unchanging  close  of  it. 

I  will  tell  it  in  the  words  of  Aulay. 

"  A  bitter  wild  day  it  was,  that  day  I  saw 
him  to  see  him  no  more.  It  was  late.  The 
sea  was  red  with  the  flamin'  light  that  burned 
up  the  air  betwixt  lona  and  all  that  is  west  of 
West.  I  was  on  the  shore,  looking  at  the 
sea.  The  big  green  waves  came  in  like  the 
chariots  in  the  Holy  Book.  Well,  it  was  on 
the  black  shoulder  of  one  of  them,  just  short 
of  the  ton  o'  foam  that  swept  above  it,  that  I 
saw  a  spar  surgin'  by. 

"  '  What  is  that  ?  '  I  said  to  myself.  And 
the  reason  of  my  wondering  was  this.  I  saw 
that  a  smaller  spar  was  swung  across  it.  And 
while  I  was  watching  that  thing  another  great 
billow  came  in  with  a  roar,  and  hurled  the 
double-spar  back,  and  not  so  far  from  me  but 
I  might  have  gripped  it.  But  who  would  have 
gripped  that  thing  if  he  were  for  seeing  what 
I  saw? 

"  It  is  Himself  knows  that  what  I  say  is  a 
true  thing. 

"  On  that  spar  was  Neil  Ross,  the  Sin- 
Eater.    Naked  he  was  as  the  day  he  was  born. 

60 


The  Sin-Eater 

And  he  was  lashed,  too,  ay,  sure  he  was  lashed 
to  it  by  ropes  round  and  round  his  legs  and 
his  waist  and  his  left  arm.  It  was  the  Cross 
he  was  on.  I  saw  that  thing  with  the  fear 
upon  me.  Ah,  poor  drifting  wreck  that  he 
was !    Judas  on  the  Cross!    It  was  his  eric! 

"  But  even  as  I  watched,  shaking  in  my 
limbs,  I  saw  that  there  was  life  in  him  still. 
The  lips  were  moving,  and  his  right  arm  was 
ever  for  swinging  this  way  and  that.  'Twas 
like  an  oar  working  him  off  a  lee  shore;  ay, 
that  was  what  I  thought. 

"  Then  all  at  once  he  caught  sight  of  me. 
Well,  he  knew  me,  poor  man,  that  has  his 
share  of  Heaven  now,  I  am  thinking! 

"  He  waved,  and  called,  but  the  hearing 
could  not  be,  because  of  a  big  surge  o'  water 
that  came  tumbling  down  upon  him.  In  the 
stroke  of  an  oar  he  was  swept  close  by  the 
rocks  where  I  was  standing.  In  that  floun- 
derin',  seethin'  whirlpool  I  saw  the  white  face 
of  him  for  a  moment,  an',  as  he  went  out  on 
the  resurge  like  a  hauled  net,  I  heard  these 
words  fallin'  against  my  ears: 

"  '  An  eirig  m'anama! — In  ransom  for  my 
soul ! ' 

"  And  with  that  I  saw  the  double-spar  turn 
over  and  slide  down  the  back-sweep  of  a 
drowning  big  wave.    Ay,  sure,  it  went  out  to 

6i 


The  Sin-Eater 

the  deep  sea  swift  enough  then.  It  was  in 
the  big  eddy  that  rushes  between  Skerry-Mor 
and  Skerry-Beag.  I  did  not  see  it  again;  no, 
not  for  the  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  am  think- 
ing. Then  I  saw  just  the  whirHng  top  of  it 
rising  out  of  the  flying  yeast  of  a  great  black, 
bhistering  wave  that  was  rushing  northward 
before  the  current  that  is  called  the  Black- 
Eddy. 

"  With  that  you  have  the  end  of  Neil  Ross : 
ay,  sure,  him  that  was  called  the  Sin-Eater. 
And  that  is  a  true  thing,  and  may  God  save 
us  the  sorrow  of  sorrows ! 

"  And  that  is  all." 


62 


THE    NINTH   WAVE 

The  wind  fell  as  we  crossed  the  Sound. 
There  was  only  one  oar  in  the  boat,  and 
we  lay  idly  adrift.  The  tide  was  still  on  the 
ebb,  and  so  we  made  way  for  Soa,  though  well 
before  the  island  could  be  reached  the  tide 
would  turn,  and  the  sea-wind  would  stir,  and 
we  be  up  the  Sound,  and  at  Balliemore  again 
almost  as  quick  as  the  laying  of  a  net. 

As  we — and  by  "  us  "  I  am  meaning  Pad- 
ruig  Macrae  and  Ivor  McLean,  fishermen  of 
lona,  and  myself  beside  Ivor  at  the  helm — 
as  we  slid  slowly  past  the  ragged  islet  known 
as  Eilean-na-h'Aon-Chaorach,  torn  and  rent 
by  the  tides  and  surges  of  a  thousand  years, 
I  saw  a  school  of  seals  basking  in  the  sun. 
One  by  one  slithered  into  the  water,  and  I 
could  note  the  dark  forms,  like  moving  patches 
of  sea-weed,  drifting  in  the  green  under- 
glooms. 

Then  after  a  time  we  bore  down  upon 
Sgeir-na-Oir,  a  barren  rock.  Three  great 
cormorants  stood  watching  us.  Their  necks 
shone   in  the  sunlight   like   snakes   mailed   in 

63 


The  Ninth  Wave 

blue  and  green.  On  the  upper  ledges  were 
eight  or  ten  northern  divers.  They  did  not 
seem  to  see  us,  though  I  knew  that  their  fierce 
light-blue  eyes  noted  every  motion  we  made. 
The  small  sea-ducks  bobbed  up  and  down, 
first  one  flirt  of  a  little  black-feathered  rump, 
then  another,  then  a  third,  till  a  score  or  so 
were  under  water,  and  half  a  hundred  more 
were  ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  follow  suit. 
A  skua  hopped  among  the  sputtering  weed, 
and  screamed  disconsolately  at  intervals. 
Among  the  myriad  colonies  of  close-set  mus- 
sels, which  gave  a  blue  bloom,  like  that  of  the 
sloe,  to  the  weed-covered  boulders,  a  few 
kitti-wakes  and  dotterels  flitted  to  and  fro. 
High  over  head,  white  against  the  blue  as  a 
cloudlet,  a  gannet  hung  motionless,  seemingly 
frozen  to  the  sky. 

Below  the  lapse  of  the  boat  the  water  was 
pale  green.  I  could  see  the  liath  and  saithe 
fanning  their  fins  in  slow  flight,  and  some- 
times a  little  scurrying  cloud  of  tiny  fluckies 
and  inch-long  codling.  For  two  or  three 
fathoms  beyond  the  boat  the  waters  were  blue. 
If  blueness  can  be  alive,  and  have  its  own  life 
and  movement,  it  must  be  happy  on  these 
western  seas,  where  it  dreams  into  shadowy 
Lethes  of  amethyst  and  deep,  dark  oblivions 
of  violet. 

64 


The  Ninth  Wave 

Suddenly  a  streak  of  silver  ran  for  a  mo- 
ment along  the  sea  to  starboard.  It  was  like 
an  arrow  of  moonlight  shot  along  the  surface 
of  the  blue  and  gold.  Almost  immediately 
afterward,  a  stertorous  sigh  was  audible.  A 
black  knife  cut  the  flow  of  the  water:  the 
shoulder  of  a  pollack. 

"  The  mackerel  are  coming  in  from  the 
sea,"  said  Macrae.  He  leaned  forward,  wet 
the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  held  it  seaward. 
"  Ay,  the  tide  has  turned — 

Ohrone — achree — an — Sruth-ntaraf 
Ohrone — achree — an — LionadhI" 

he  droned  monotonously,  over  and  over  with 
few  variations. 

"An'  it's  Oh  an'  Oh  for  the  tides  o'  the  sea, 
An'  it's  Oh  for  the  flowing  tide," 

I  sang  at  last  in  mockery. 

"  Come,  Padruig,"  I  cried,  "  you  are  as  bad 
as  Peter  McAlpin's  lassie,  Elsie,  with  the 
pipes !  " 

Both  men  laughed  lightly.  On  the  last  Sab- 
bath, old  McAlpin  had  held  a  prayer-meeting 
in  his  little  house  in  the  "  street,"  in  Ballie- 
more  of  lona.  At  the  end  of  his  discourse  he 
told  his  hearers  that  the  voice  of  God  was 

65 


The  Ninth  Wave 

terrible  only  to  the  evil-doer  but  beautiful  to 
the  righteous  man,  and  that  this  voice  was 
even  now  among  them,  speaking  in  a  thou- 
sand ways  and  yet  in  one  way.  And  at  this 
moment,  that  elfin  granddaughter  of  his,  who 
was  in  the  byre  close  by,  let  go  upon  the  pipes 
with  so  long  and  weary  a  whine  that  the  col- 
lies by  the  fire  whimpered,  and  would  have 
howled  outright  but  for  the  Word  of  God  that 
still  lay  open  on  the  big  stool  in  front  of  old 
Peter.  For  it  was  in  this  way  that  the  dogs 
knew  when  the  Sabbath  readings  were  over ; 
and  there  was  not  one  that  would  dare  to  bark 
or  howl,  much  less  rise  and  go  out,  till  the 
Book  was  closed  with  a  loud^  solemn  bang. 
Well,  again  and  again  that  weary  quavering 
moan  went  up  and  down  the  room,  till  even 
old  McAlpin  smiled,  though  he  was  fair  angry 
with  Elsie.  But  he  made  the  sign  of  silence, 
and  began :  "  My  brethren,  even  in  this  trial  it 
may  be  the  Almighty  has  a  message  for  us  " 
— when  at  that  moment  Elsie  was  kicked  by  a 
cow,  and  fell  against  the  board  with  the  pipes, 
and  squeezed  out  so  wild  a  wail  that  McAlpin 
started  up  and  cried,  in  the  Lowland  way  that 
he  had  won  out  of  his  wife,  "  Hoots,  havers, 
an'  a' !  come  oot  o'  that,  ye  Deil's  spunkie!  " 
So  it  was  this  memory  that  made  Padruig 
and   Ivor  smile.     Suddenly  Ivor  began  with 

66 


The  Ninth  Wave 

a  long  rising  and  falling  cadence,  an  old  Gaelic 
rune  of  the  Faring  of  the  Tide. 

Athair,  A  mine,  A  Spioraid  Naoimh, 
Biodh  an  Tri-aon  leinn,  a  la's  a  dh'  oidhche; 
S'air  chid  nan  tonn,  no  air  thaobh  nam  beann! 

O  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit, 

Be  the  Three-in-One  with  us  day  and  night. 

On  the  crested  wave,  when  waves  run  high! 

And  out  of  the  place  in  the  West 

Where  Tir-nan-Og,  the  Land  of  Youth 

Is,  the  Land  of  Youth  everlasting. 

Send  the  great  Tide  that  carries  the  sea-weed 

And  brings  the  birds,  out  of  the  North: 

And  bid  it  wind  as  a  snake  through  the  bracken. 

As  a  great  snake  through  the  heather  of  the  sea, 

The  fair  blooming  heather  of  the  sunlit  sea. 

And  may  it  bring  the  fish  to  our  nets, 

And  the  great  fish  to  our  lines : 

And  may  it  sweep  away  the  sea-hounds 

That  devour  the  herring: 

And  may  it  drown  the  heavy  pollack 

That  respect  not  our  nets 

But  fall  into  and  tear  them  and  ruin  them  wholly. 

And  may  I,  or  any  that  is  of  my  blood, 

Behold  not  the  Wave-Haunter  who  comes  in  with  the 

Tide, 
Or  the  Maighdeann-mara  who  broods  in  the  shallows. 
Where  the  sea-caves  are,  in  the  ebb: 
And  fair  may  my  fishing  be,  and  the  fishing  of  those 

near  to  me, 

^7 


The  Ninth  Wave 

And  good  may  this  Tide  be,  and  good  may  it  bring: 
And  may  there  be  no  calling  in  the  Flow,  this  Sruth- 

mara, 
And  may  there  be  no  burden  in  the  Ebb !     Ochone! 

An  ainm  an  Athar,  5'  an  Mhic,  5'  an  Spioraid  Naoimh, 
Biodh  an  Tri-aon  leinn,  a  la's  a  dh'  oidhche, 
5'  air  chul  nan  tonn,  no  air  thaobh  nam  beanni 

Ochone!  aronc! 

Both  men  sang  the  closing  hnes  with  loudly 
swelling  voices  and  with  a  wailing  fen^our 
which  no  words  of  mine  could  convey. 

Runes  of  this  kind  prevail  all  over  the  isles, 
from  the  Butt  of  Lewis  to  the  Rhinns  of  Islay : 
identical  in  spirit,  though  varying  in  lines  and 
phrases,  according  to  the  mood  and  tempera- 
ment of  the  rannaichc  or  singer,  the  local  or 
peculiar  physiognomy  of  nature,  the  instinct- 
ive yielding  to  hereditary  wonder-words,  and 
other  compelling  circumstances  of  the  outer 
and  inner  life.  Almost  needless  to  say,  the 
sea-maid  or  sea-witch  and  the  Wave-Haunter 
occur  in  many  of  those  wild  runes,  particu- 
larly in  those  that  are  impromptu.  In  the 
Outer  Hebrides,  the  runes  are  wild  natural 
hymns  rather  than  Pagan  chants;  though 
marked  distinctions  prevail  there  also — for  in 
Harris  and  the  Lews  the  folk  are  Protestant 
almost  to  a  man,  while  in  Benbecula  and  the 
Southern  Hebrides  the  Catholics  are  in  a  like 

68 


The  Ninth  Wave 

ascendancy.  But  all  are  at  one  in  the  com- 
mon Brotherhood  of  Sorrow. 

The  only  lines  in  Ivor  McLean's  wailing 
song  which  puzzled  me  were  the  two  last 
which  came  before  "  the  good  words,"  "  in 
the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the 
Spirit,"  etc, 

"Tell  me,  in  English,  Ivor,"  I  said,  after 
a  silence,  wherein  I  pondered  the  Gaelic  words, 
"  what  is  the  meaning  of — 

'And  may  there  be  no  calling  in  the  Flow,  this  Sriith- 

m^ra, 
And  may  there  be  no  burden  in  the  Ebb?'  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  telling  you  what  is  the 
meaning  of  that.  When  the  great  tide  that 
wells  out  of  the  hollow  of  the  sea,  and  sweeps 
toward  all  the  coasts  of  the  world,  first  stirs, 
when  she  will  be  knowing  that  the  Ebb  is  not 
any  more  moving  at  all,  she  sends  out  nine 
long  waves.  And  I  will  be  forgetting  what 
these  waves  are:  but  one  will  be  to  shepherd 
the  sea-weed  that  is  for  the  blessing  of  man, 
and  another  is  for  to  wake  the  fish  that  sleep 
in  the  deeps,  and  another  is  for  this,  and  an- 
other will  be  for  that,  and  the  seventh  is  to 
rouse  the  Wave-Haunter  and  all  the  creat- 
ures of  the  water  that  fear  and  hate  man,  and 
the  eighth  no  man  knows,  though  the  priests 

69 


The  Ninth  Wave 

say  it  is  to  carry  the  Whisper  of  Mary,  and 
the  ninth — " 

"And  the  ninth,  Ivor?" 

"  May  it  be  far  from  us,  from  you  and  from 
me  and  from  those  of  us !  An'  I  will  be  say- 
in'  nothing  against  it,  not  I ;  nor  against  any- 
thing that  is  in  the  sea !  An'  you  will  be  not- 
ing that ! 

"  Well,  this  ninth  wave  goes  through  the 
water  on  the  forehead  of  the  tide.  An'  wher- 
ever it  will  be  going  it  calls.  An'  the  call  of 
it  is,  '  Come  azvay,  come  away,  the  sea  zimts! 
Follow!  .  .  .  Come  azvay,  come  azvay,  the  sea 
waits!  Follozv! '  ^  An'  whoever  hears  that 
must  arise  and  go,  whether  he  be  fish  or  pol- 
lack, or  seal  or  otter,  or  great  skua  or  small 
tern,  or  bird  or  beast  of  the  shore,  or  bird  or 
beast  of  the  sea,  or  whether  it  be  man  or 
woman  or  child,  or  any  of  the  others." 

"  Any  of  the  others,  Ivor?  " 

"  I  will  not  be  saying  anything  about  that," 
replied  McLean,  gravely ;  "  you  will  be  know- 
ing well  what  I  mean,  and  if  you  do  not 
it  is  not  for  me  to  talk  of  that  which  is  not  to 
be  talked  about. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  for  saying:  that  calling  of 

•  Ivor,  of  course,  gave  these  words  in  the  Gaelic, 
the  sound  of  which  has  the  strange  wail  of  the  sea 
in  it. 

70 


The  NintJi  Wave 

the  ninth  wave  of  the  Tide  is  what  lan-Mor 
of  the  hill  speaks  of  as  '  the  whisper  of  the 
snow  that  falls  on  the  hair,  the  whisper  of  the 
frost  that  lies  on  the  cold  face  of  him  that 
will  never  be  waking  again.'  " 

"  Death  r  " 

"  It  is  you  that  will  be  saying  it. 

"  Well,"  he  resumed  after  a  moment's  hush, 
"  a  man  may  live  by  the  sea  for  five  score 
years  and  never  hear  that  ninth  wave  call  in 
any  Sruth-mdra,  but  soon  or  late  he  will  hear 
it.  An'  many  is  the  Flood  that  will  be  silent 
for  all  of  us:  but  there  will  be  one  Flood  for 
each  of  us  that  will  be  a  dreadful  Voice,  a 
voice  of  terror  and  of  dreadfulness.  And 
whoever  hears  that  Voice,  he  for  sure  will  be 
the  burden  in  the  Ebb." 

"Has  any  heard  that  Voice,  and  lived?" 

McLean  looked  at  me,  but  said  nothing. 
Padruig  Macrae  rose,  tautened  a  rope,  and 
made  a  sign  to  me  to  put  the  helm  alee.  Then, 
looking  into  the  green  water  slipping  by — 
for  the  tide  was  feeling  our  keel,  and  a 
stronger  breath  from  the  sea  lay  against  the 
hollow  that  was  growing  in  the  sail — he  said 
to  Ivor: 

"  You  should  be  telling  her  of  Ivor  Mac- 
Ivor  mhic  Niall." 

"  Who  was  Ivor  MacNeil  ?  "  I  said. 

71 


The  Ninth  Wave 

"  He  was  the  father  of  my  mother,"  an- 
swered McLean,  "  and  was  known  through- 
out the  north  isles  as  Ivor  Carminish,  for  he 
had  a  farm  on  the  eastern  lands  of  Carmin- 
ish which  lie  between  the  hills  called  Stron- 
deval  and  Rondeval,  that  are  in  the  far  south 
of  the  northern  Hebrides,  and  near  what  will 
be  known  to  you  as  the  Obb  of  Harris. 

"  And  I  will  now  be  telling  you  about  him 
in  the  Gaelic,  for  it  is  more  easy  to  me,  and 
more  pleasant  for  us  all. 

"  When  Ivor  MacEachainn  Carminish,  that 
was  Ivor's  father,  died,  he  left  the  farm  to  his 
elder  son  and  to  his  second  son,  Seumas. 
By  this  time,  Ivor  was  married,  and  had  the 
daughter  who  is  my  mother.  But  he  was  a 
lonely  man,  and  an  islesman  to  the  heart's 
core.  So  .  .  .  but  you  will  be  knowing  the 
isles  that  lie  off  the  Obb  of  Harris — the 
Saghay,  and  Ensay,  and  Killegray,  and 
farther  west,  Berneray  and,  north-west,  Pa- 
baidh,  and  beyond  that  again,  Shillaidh  ?  " 

For  the  moment  I  was  confused,  for  these 
names  are  so  common :  and  I  was  thinking  of 
the  big  isle  of  Berneray  that  lies  in  huge  Loch 
Roag  that  has  swallowed  so  great  a  mouthful 
of  Western  Lewis,  to  the  seaward  of  which 
also  are  the  two  Pabbays,  Pabaidh  Mor  and 
Pabaidh    Beag.      But   when    McLean   added, 

72 


The  Ninth  Wave 

"  and  other  isles  of  the  Caolas  Harrish  "  (the 
Sound  of  Harris),  I  remembered  aright;  and 
indeed  I  knew  both,  though  the  nor'  isles  bet- 
ter, for  I  had  lived  near  Callernish  on  the  in- 
ner waters  of  Roag. 

"  Well,  Carminish  had  sheep-runs  upon 
some  of  these.  One  summer  the  gloom  came 
upon  him,  and  he  left  Seumas  to  take  care 
of  the  farm  and  of  Morag  his  wife,  and  of 
Sheen  their  daughter ;  and  he  went  to  live 
upon  Pabbay,  near  the  old  castle  that  is  by 
the  Rua  Dune  on  the  south-east  of  the  isle. 
There  he  stayed  for  three  months.  But  on 
the  last  night  of  each  month  he  heard  the  sea 
calling  in  his  sleep;  and  what  he  heard  was 
like  '  Come  away,  come  aivay,  the  sea  waits! 
FoIIozv  .  .  .  Come  azvay,  come  azvay,  the  sea 
waits!  Follow! '  And  he  knew  the  voice  of 
the  ninth  wave ;  and  that  it  would  not  be  there 
in  the  darkness  of  sleep  if  it  were  not  already 
moving  toward  him  through  the  dark  ways 
of  An  Dan  (Destiny).  So,  thinking  to  pass 
away  from  a  place  doomed  for  him,  and  that 
he  might  be  safe  elsewhere,  he  sailed  north 
to  a  kinsman's  croft  on  Aird-Vanish  in  the 
island  of  Taransay.  But  at  the  end  of  that 
month  he  heard  in  his  sleep  the  noise  of  tidal 
waters,  and  at  the  gathering  of  the  ebb  he 
heard  '  Come  away,  come  away,  the  sea  waits! 

7Z 


The  Ninth  Wave 

Follow! '  Then  once  more,  when  the  Novem- 
ber heat-spell  had  come,  he  sailed  farther 
northward  still.  He  stopped  a  while  at  Eilean 
Mhealastaidh,  which  is  under  the  morning 
shadow  of  high  Griomabhal  on  the  mainland, 
and  at  other  places,  till  he  settled,  in  the  third 
week,  at  his  cousin  Eachainn  MacEachainn's 
bothy,  near  Callernish,  where  the  Great  Stones 
of  old  stand  by  the  sea,  and  hear  nothing  for- 
ever but  the  noise  of  the  waves  of  the  North 
Sea  and  the  cry  of  the  sea-wind. 

"  And  when  the  last  night  of  November  had 
come  and  gone,  and  he  had  heard  in  his  sleep 
no  calling  of  the  ninth  wave  of  the  Flowing 
Tide,  he  took  heart  of  grace.  All  through  that 
next  day  he  went  in  peace.  Eachainn  won- 
dered often  with  slant  eyes  when  he  saw  the 
morose  man  smile,  and  heard  his  silence  give 
way  now  and  again  to  a  short,  mirthless  laugh. 

"  The  two  were  at  the  porridge,  and  Each- 
ainn was  muttering  his  Btii'cheas  dha'n  Ti, 
the  Thanks  to  the  Being,  when  Carminish 
suddenly  leaped  to  his  feet,  and,  with  white 
face,  stood  shaking  like  a  rope  in  the  wind. 

"  '  In  the  name  of  the  Son,  what  is  it,  Ivor 
mhic  Ivor  ?  What  is  it,  Carminish  ? '  cried 
Eachainn. 

"  But  the  stricken  man  could  scarce  speak. 
At   last,    with   a   long   sigh,   he   turned   and 

74 


The  Ninth  Wave 

looked  at  his  kinsman,  and  that  look  went 
down  into  the  shivering  heart  like  the  polar 
wind  into  a  crofter's  hut. 

" '  What  will  he  that? '  said  Carminish,  in 
a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Eachainn  listened,  but  he  could  hear  no 
wailing  beann-sith,  no  unwonted  sound. 

"  '  Sure,  I  hear  nothing  but  the  wind  moan- 
ing through  the  Great  Stones,  an'  beyond 
them  the  noise  of  the  Flowin'  Tide.' 

"  'The  Flowing  Tide !  The  Flowing  Tide ! ' 
cried  Carminish,  and  no  longer  with  the  hush 
in  the  voice.  '  An'  what  is  it  you  hear  in  the 
Flowing  Tide  ? ' 

"  Eachainn  looked  in  silence.  What  was 
the  thing  he  could  say?     For  now  he  knew. 

"  Ah,  och,  och,  ochone,  you  may  well  sigh, 
Eachainn  mhic  Eachainn !  For  the  ninth  wave 
o'  the  Flowing  Tide  is  coming  out  o'  the 
North  Sea  upon  this  shore,  an'  already  I  can 
hear  it  calling,  '  Come  away,  come  azvay,  the 
sea  waits!  Follow!  .  .  .  Come  aivay,  come 
away,  the  sea  waits!    Follozv! ' 

"  And  with  that  Carminish  dashed  out  the 
light  that  was  upon  the  table,  and  leaped  upon 
Eachainn,  and  dinged  him  to  the  floor  and 
would  have  killed  him  but  for  the  growing 
noise  of  the  sea  beyond  the  Stannin'  Stones  o' 
Callanish,   and  the  woe-weary   sough   o'  the 

75 


The  Ninth  Wave 

wind,  an'  the  calling,  calling,   '  Come,   come 
away!    Come,  come  azvay! ' 

"  And  so  he  rose  and  staggered  to  the  door, 
and  flung  himself  out  into  the  night,  while 
Eachainn  lay  upon  the  floor  and  gasped  for 
breath,  and  then  crawled  to  his  knees,  an'  took 
the  Book  from  the  shelf  by  his  fern-straw 
mattress,  an'  put  his  cheek  against  it,  an' 
moaned  to  God,  an'  cried  like  a  child  for  the 
doom  that  was  upon  Ivor  Maclvor  mhic  Niall, 
who  was  of  his  own  blood,  and  his  own  foster- 
brother  at  that. 

"  And  while  he  moaned,  Carminish  was 
stalking  through  the  great,  gaunt,  looming 
Stones  of  the  Druids,  that  were  here  before 
St.  Colum  and  his  Shona  came,  and  laughing 
wild.  And  all  the  time  the  tide  was  com- 
ing in,  and  the  tide  and  the  deep  sea  and 
the  waves  of  the  shore  and  the  wind  in 
the  salt  grass  and  the  weary  reeds  and  the 
black-pool  gale  made  a  noise  of  a  dreadful 
hymn,  that  was  the  death-hymn,  the  going- 
rune,  of  Ivor  the  son  of  Ivor  of  the  kindred 
of  Niall. 

"  And  it  was  there  that  they  found  his  body 
in  the  grey  dawn,  wet  and  stiff  with  the  salt 
ooze.  For  the  soul  that  was  in  him  had  heard 
the  call  of  the  ninth  wave  that  was  for  him. 
So,  and  may  the  Being  keep  back  that  hour 

76 


The  Ninth  Wave 

for  us,  there  was  a  burden  upon  that  Ebb  on 
the  morning  of  that  day. 

"  Also,  there  is  this  thing  for  the  hearing. 
In  the  dim  dark  before  the  curlew  cried  at 
dawn,  Eachainn  heard  a  voice  about  the  house, 
a  voice  going  like  a  thing  blind  and  baffled, 

"  'Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  mi  tuille!'  " 
I  return,  I  return,  I  return  never  more! 


77 


THE   JUDGMENT   O'    GOD 

The  wind  that  blows  on  the  feet  of  the 
dead  came  calHng  loud  across  the  Ross,  as 
we  put  about  the  boat  off  the  Rudhe  Cal- 
lachain  in  the  Sound  of  lona.  The  ebb  sucked 
at  the  keel,  while,  like  a  cork,  we  were  swung 
lightly  by  the  swell.  For  we  were  in  the  strait 
between  Eilean  Dubh  and  the  Isle  of  the 
Swine ;  and  that  is  where  the  current  has  a 
bad  pull,  the  current  that  is  made  of  the  inflow 
and  the  outflow.  I  have  heard  that  a  weary 
woman  of  the  olden  days  broods  down  there 
in  a  cave,  and  that  day  and  night  she  weaves 
a  web  of  water,  which  a  fierce  spirit  in 
the  sea  tears  this  way  and  that  as  soon  as 
woven. 

So  we  put  about,  and  went  before  the  east 
wind ;  and  below  the  dip  of  the  sail  alee  I 
watched  Soa  grow  bigger  and  gaunter  and 
blacker  against  the  white  wave.  As  we  came 
so  near  that  it  was  as  though  the  wash  of 
the  sea  among  the  hollows  bubbled  in  our 
ears,  I  saw  a  large  bull-seal  lying  half-in, 
half-out  of  the  water,  and  staring  at  us  with 

78 


The  Judgment  o'  God 

an  angry,  fearless  look.  Padruig  and  Ivor 
caught  sight  of  it  almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. 

To  my  surprise  Padruig  suddenly  rose  and 
put  a  spell  upon  it.  I  could  hear  the  wind 
through  his  clothes  as  he  stood  by  the  mast. 

The  rosad  or  spell  was,  of  course,  in  the 
Gaelic,  but  its  meaning  was  something  like 
this : 

Ho,  ro,  O  Ron  dubh,  O  Ron  dubhl 

An  ainm  an  Athar,  O  Ron! 

'5  an  mhic,  O  Ron! 

'S  an  Spioraid  Naohnh, 

O  Ron-h'-mhhra,  O  Ron  dubh! 

Ho,  ro,  O  black  Seal,  O  black  Seal! 
In  the  name  of  the  Father, 
And  of  the  Son, 
And  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 

0  Seal  of  the  deep  sea,  O  black  Seal 

Hearken  the  thing  that  I  say  to  thee, 
I,  Phadric  MacAlastair  MhicCrae, 
Who  dwell  in  a  house  on  the  Island 
That  you  look  on  night  and  day  from  Soa! 
For  I  put  rosad  upon  thee, 

And  upon  the  woman-seal  that  won  thee, 
And  the  women-seal  that  are  thine, 
And  the  young  that  thou  hast, 
Ay,  upon  thee  and  all  thy  kin 

1  put  rosad,  O  Ron  dubh,  O  Ron-a'-mhira! 

79 


The  Judgment  o'  God 

A^nd  may  no  harm  come  to  me  or  mine, 

Or  to  any  fishing  or  snaring  that  is  of  me, 

Or  to  any  sailing  by  storm  or  dusk, 

Or  when  the  moonshine  fills  the  blind  eyes  of  the  dead, 

No  harm  to  me  or  mine 

From  thee  or  thine! 

With  a  slow,  swinging  motion  of  his  head 
Padruig  broke  out  again  into  the  first  words 
of  the  incantation,  and  now  Ivor  joined  him; 
and  with  the  call  of  the  wind  and  the  leaping 
and  the  splashing  of  the  waves  was  blent  the 
chant  of  the  two  fishermen : 

Ho,  ro,  O  Ron  dubh!  O  Ron  dubh! 

An  ainm  anAthar,  's  an  Mhic,  's  anSpioraid Naointh, 

O  Ron-d'-mhhra,  O  Ron  dubh! 

Then  the  men  sat  back,  with  that  dazed 
look  in  the  eyes  I  have  so  often  seen  in  those 
of  men  or  women  of  the  Isles  who  are 
wrought.  No  word  was  spoken  till  we  came 
almost  straight  upon  Eilean-na-h'  Aon-Chao- 
rach.  Then  at  the  rocks  we  tacked  and  went 
splashing  up  the  Sound,  like  a  pollack  on  a 
Sabbath  noon.^ 

'  The  lona  fishermen,  and  indeed  the  Gaelic  and 
Scottish  fishermen  generally,  believ-e  that  the  pollack 
(porpoise)  knows  when  it  is  the  Sabbath ;  and  on  that 
day  will  come  closer  to  the  land,  and  be  more  wanton 
in  its  gambols  on  the  sun-warmed  surface  of  the  sea, 
than  on  the  days  when  the  herring-boats  are  abroad. 

80 


The  Judgment  o'  God 

"  What  was  wrong  with  the  old  man  of  the 
sea?"  I  asked  Padruig. 

At  first  he  would  say  nothing.  He  looked 
vaguely  at  a  coiled  rope;  then,  with  hand- 
shaded  gaze  across  to  the  red  rocks  at  Fion- 
naphort.  I  repeated  my  question.  He  took 
refuge  in  English. 

"  It  wass  ferry  likely  the  Clansman  would 
be  pringing  ta  new  minister-body.  Did  you  pe 
knowing  him,  or  his  people,  or  where  he  came 
from?" 

But  I  was  not  to  be  put  off  thus ;  and  at  last, 
while  Ivor  stared  down  the  green  shelving 
lawns  of  the  sea  below  us,  Padruig  told  me 
this  thing.  His  reluctance  was  partly  due  to 
the  shyness  which  with  the  Gael  almost  in- 
variably follows  strong  emotion ;  and  partly 
to  that  strange,  obscure,  secretive  instinct 
which  is  also  so  characteristically  Celtic,  and 
often  even  prevents  Gaels  of  far  apart  isles, 
or  of  different  clans,  from  communicating  to 
each  other  stories  or  legends  of  a  peculiarly 
intimate  kind. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  my  father  told  me, 
and  what,  if  you  like,  you  may  hear  again 
from  the  sister  of  my  father,  who  is  the  wife 
of  Ian  Finlay,  who  has  the  farm  on  the  north 
side  of  Dun  I. 

"  You  will  have  heard  of  old  Robert  Ach- 

8i 


The  Judgment  o    God 

anna  of  Eilanmore,  off  the  Ord  o'  Sutherland? 
To  be  sure,  for  have  you  not  stayed  there. 
Well,  I  need  not  tell  you  how  he  came  there 
out  of  the  south ;  but  it  will  be  news  to  you  to 
learn  that  my  elder  brother  Murdoch  was  had 
by  him  as  a  shepherd,  and  to  help  on  the  farm. 
And  the  way  of  that  thing  was  this :  Murdoch 
had  gone  to  the  fishing  north  of  Skye,  with 
Angus  and  William  Macdonald,  and  in  the 
great  gale  that  broke  up  their  boat,  among  so 
many  others,  he  found  himself  stranded  on 
Eilanmore.  Achanna  told  him  that  as  he  was 
ruined,  and  so  far  from  home,  he  would  give 
him  employment,  and  though  Murdoch  had 
never  thought  to  serve  under  a  Galloway  man, 
he  agreed. 

"  For  a  year  he  worked  on  the  upper  farm, 
Ardoch-beag,  as  it  was  called.  There  the 
gloom  came  upon  him.  Turn  which  way  he 
would,  the  beauty  that  is  in  the  day  was  no 
more.  In  vain,  when  he  came  out  into  the 
air  in  the  morning,  did  he  cry  Deasiul!  and 
keep  by  the  sunway.  At  night  he  heard  the 
sea  calling  in  his  sleep.  So,  when  the  lambing 
was  over,  he  told  Achanna  that  he  must  go, 
for  he  hungered  for  the  sea.  True,  the  wave 
ran  all  around  Eilanmore,  but  the  farm  was 
between  bare  hills  and  among  high  moors, 
and  the  house  was  in  a  hollow  place.     But  it 

82 


The  Judgment  o'  God 

was  needful  for  him  to  go.  Even  then, 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  the  madness  of  the 
sea  was  upon  him. 

"  But  the  Galloway  man  did  not  wish  to 
lose  my  brother,  who  was  a  quiet  man,  and 
worked  for  a  small  wage.  Murdoch  was  a 
silent  lad,  but  he  had  often  the  light  in  his 
eyes,  and  none  knew  of  what  he  was  thinking ; 
maybe  it  was  of  a  lass,  or  a  friend,  or  of  the 
ingle-neuk  where  his  old  mother  sang  o* 
nights,  or  of  the  sight  and  sound  of  lona  that 
was  his  own  land ;  but  I'm  considerin'  it  was 
the  sea  he  was  dreamin'  of — how  the  waves 
ran  laughin'  an'  dancin'  against  the  tide, 
like  lambkins  comin'  to  meet  the  shep- 
herd, or  how  the  big  green  billows  went 
sweepin'  white  an'  ghostly  through  the  moon- 
less nights. 

"  So  the  troth  that  was  come  to  between 
them  was  this :  that  Murdoch  should  abide 
for  a  year  longer,  that  is,  till  Lammastide ; 
then  that  he  should  no  longer  live  at  Ardoch- 
beag,  bur  instead  should  go  and  keep  the 
sheep  on  Bac-Mor." 

"  On  Bac-Mor,  Padruig,"  I  interrupted, 
"  for  sure,  you  do  not  mean  our  Bac-Mor  ?  " 

"  For  sure  I  mean  no  other :  Bac-Mor,  of 
the  Treshnish  Isles,  that  is  eleven  miles  north 

83 


The  Judgment  o"  God 

of  lona  and  a  long  four  north-west  of  Staffa; 

an'  just  Bac-Mor  an'  no  other." 

"  Murdoch  would  be  near  home,  there." 
"  Ay,  near,  an'  farther  away ;  for  'tis  to  be 

farther  off  to  be  near  that  your  heart  loves 

but  ye  can't  get. 

"  Well,  Murdoch  agreed  to  this,  but  he  did 
not  know  there  was  no  boat  on  the  island.  It 
was  all  very  well  in  the  summer.  The  her- 
rin '-smacks  lay  off  Bac-Mor  or  Bac-Beag 
many  a  time ;  and  he  could  see  them  mornin', 
noon,  an'  night;  an'  nigh  every  day  he  could 
watch  the  big  steamer  comin'  southward  down 
the  Mornish  and  Treshnish  coasts  of  Mull, 
and  stand  by  for  an  hour  off  Staffa,  or  else 
come  northward  out  of  the  Sound  of  lona 
round  the  Eilean  Rabach ;  and  once  or  twice 
a  week  he  saw  the  Clansman  coming  or  going 
from  Bunessan  in  the  Ross  to  Scarnish  in  the 
Isle  of  Tiree.  Maybe,  too,  now  and  again  a 
foreign  sloop  or  a  coasting  schooner  would 
sail  by ;  and  twice,  at  least,  a  yacht  lay  off  the 
wild  shore,  and  put  a  boat  in  at  the  landing- 
place,  and  let  some  laughing  folk  loose  upon 
that  quiet  place.  The  first  time,  it  was  a 
steam-yacht,  owned  by  a  rich  foreigner,  either 
an  Englishman  or  an  American,  I  misremem- 
ber  now :  an'  he  spoke  to  Murdoch  as  though 

84 


The  Judgment  o'  God 

he  were  a  savage,  and  he  and  his  gay  folk 
laughed  when  my  brother  spoke  in  the  only 
English  he  had  (an'  sober  good  English  it 
was),  an'  then  he  shoved  some  money  into  his 
hand,  as  though  both  were  evil-doers  and  were 
ashamed  to  be  seen  doing  what  they  did. 

"  '  An'  what  is  this  for  ? '  said  my  brother. 

"  '  O  it's  for  yourself,  my  man,  to  drink  our 
health  with,'  answered  the  English  lord,  or 
whatever  he  was,  rudely. 

"  Then  Murdoch  looked  at  him  and  his 
quietly ;  an'  he  said,  '  God  has  your  health  an' 
my  health  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand.  But  I 
wish  you  well.  Only  I  am  not  being  your  man 
any  more  than  I  am  for  calling  yoii  my  man ; 
an'  I  will  ask  you  to  take  back  this  money  to 
drink  with  ;  nor  have  I  any  need  for  money, 
but  only  for  that  which  is  free  to  all — but  that 
only  God  can  give.'  And  with  that  the  for- 
eign people  went  away,  and  laughed  less.  But 
when  the  second  yacht  came,  though  it  was  a 
yawl  owned  by  a  Glasgow  man  who  had  folk 
in  the  west,  Murdoch  would  not  come  down 
to  the  shore,  but  lay  under  the  shadow  of  a 
rock  amid  his  sheep,  and  kept  his  eyes  upon 
the  sun  that  was  moving  west  out  of  the  south. 

"  Well,  all  through  the  fine  months  Mur- 
doch stayed  on  Bac-Mor,  and  thereafter 
through  the  early  winter.     The  last  time   I 

85 


The  Judgment  o    God 

saw  him  was  at  the  New  Year.  On  Hog- 
manay night  my  father  was  drinking  hard, 
and  nothing  would  serve  him  but  he  must  bor- 
row Alec  Macarthur's  boat,  and  that  he  and 
our  mother  and  myself,  and  Ian  Finlay  and 
his  wife,  my  sister,  should  go  out  before  the 
quiet  south-wind  that  was  blowing,  and  see 
Murdoch  where  he  lay  sleeping  or  sat  dream- 
ing in  his  lonely  bothy.  And  truth,  we  went. 
It  was  a  white  sailing,  that  I  remember.  The 
moonshinings  ran  in  and  out  of  the  wavelets 
like  herrings  through  salmon  nets.  The  fire- 
flauchts,  too,  went  speeding  about.  I  was  but 
a  laddie  then,  an'  I  noted  it  all ;  an'  the  sheet- 
lightning  that  played  behind  the  cloudy  lift 
in  the  nor'-west. 

"  But  when  we  got  to  Bac-Mor  there  was 
no  sign  of  Murdoch  at  the  bothy;  no,  not 
though  we  called  high  and  low.  Then  my 
father  and  Ian  Finlay  went  to  look,  and  we 
stayed  by  the  peats.  When  they  came  back, 
an  hour  later,  I  saw  that  my  father  was  no 
more  in  drink.  He  had  the  same  look  in  his 
eyes  as  Ronald  McLean  had  that  day  last  win- 
ter when  they  told  him  his  bit  girlie  had  been 
caught  by  the  smallpox  in  Glasgow. 

"  I  could  not  hear,  or  I  could  not  make  out 
what  was  said;  but  I  know  that  we  all  got 
into  the  boat  again,  all  except  my  father.    And 

86 


The  Judgment  o'  God 

he  stayed.  And  next  day,  Ian  Finlay  and 
Alec  Macarthur  went  out  to  Bac-Mor  and 
brought  him  back. 

"  And  from  him  and  from  Ian  I  knew  all 
there  was  to  be  known.  It  was  a  hard  New 
Year  for  all,  and  since  that  day  till  a  night  of 
which  I  will  tell  you,  my  father  brooded  and 
drank,  drank  and  brooded,  and  my  mother 
wept  through  the  winter  gloamings  and  spent 
the  night  starin'  into  the  peats  wi'  her  knit- 
tin'  lyin'  on  her  lap. 

"  For  when  they  had  gone  to  seek  Murdoch 
that  Hogmanay  night,  they  came  upon  him 
away  from  his  sheep.  But  this  was  what  they 
saw.  There  was  a  black  rock  that  stood  out 
in  the  moonshine,  with  the  water  all  about  it. 
And  on  this  rock  Murdoch  lay  naked,  and 
laughing  wild.  An'  every  now  and  then  he 
would  lean  forward,  and  stretch  his  arms  out, 
an'  call  to  his  dearie.  An'  at  last,  just  as  the 
watchers,  shiverin'  wi'  fear  an'  awe,  were  go- 
ing to  close  in  upon  him,  they  saw  a — a — thing 
— come  out  o'  the  water.  It  was  long  an' 
dark,  an'  Ian  said  its  eyes  were  like  clots  o' 
blood;  but  as  to  that  no  man  can  say  yea  or 
nay,  for  Ian  himself  admits  it  was  a  seal. 

"An'  this  thing  is  true,  an  ainni  an  Athar! 
they  saw  the  dark  beast  o'  the  sea  creep  on  to 
the  rock  beside  Murdoch,  an'  lie  down  beside 

87 


The  Judgment  o'  God 

him,  and  let  him  clasp  an'  kiss  it.  An'  then 
he  stood  up,  and  laughed  till  the  skin  crept 
on  those  who  heard,  and  cried  out  on  his 
dearie  and  on  a'  the  dumb  things  o'  the  sea, 
an'  the  Wave-Hunter  an'  the  grey  shadow; 
an'  he  raised  his  hands,  an'  cursed  the  world 
o'  men,  and  cried  out  to  God,  '  Turn  your  face 
to  your  own  airidh,  O  God,  an'  may  rain  an' 
storm  an'  snozv  be  between  us! ' 

"  An'  wi'  that  Deirg,  his  collie,  could  bide 
no  more,  but  loupit  across  the  water,  and  was 
on  the  rock  beside  him,  wi'  his  fel4  bristling 
like  a  hedge-rat.  For  both  the  naked  man  an' 
the  wet  gleamin'  beast,  a  great  sea-seal  out 
o'  the  north,  turned  upon  Deirg,  an'  he  fought 
for  his  life.  But  what  could  the  puir  thing 
do?  The  seal  buried  her  fangs  in  his  shoul- 
der, at  last,  an'  pinned  him  to  the  ground. 
Then  Murdoch  stooped,  an'  dragged  her  oflF, 
an'  bent  down  an'  tore  at  the  throat  o'  Deirg 
wi' his  own  teeth.  Ay,  God's  truth  it  is!  An' 
when  the  collie  was  stark,  he  took  him  up  by 
the  hind  legs  an'  the  tail,  an'  swung  him  round 
an'  round  his  head,  an'  whirled  him  into  the 
sea,  where  he  fell  black  in  a  white  splatch  o' 
the  moon. 

"  An'  wi'  that,  Murdoch  slipped,  and  reeled 
backward  into  the  sea,  his  hands  gripping  at 
the  whirling  stars.     An'  the  thing  beside  him 

88 


Tlic  Judgment  o'  God 

louped  after  him,  an'  my  father  an'  Ian  heard 
a  cry  an'  a  cryin'  that  made  their  hearts  sob. 
But  when  they  got  down  to  the  rock  they 
saw  nothing,  except  the  floating  body  o' 
Deirg. 

"  Sure  it  was  a  weary  night  for  the  old  man, 
there  on  Bac-Mor  by  himself,  with  that  awful 
thing  that  had  happened.  He  stayed  there  to 
see  and  hear  what  might  be  seen  and  heard. 
But  nothing  he  heard,  nothing  saw.  It  was 
afterwards  that  he  heard  how  Donncha  Mac- 
Donald  had  been  on  Bac-Mor  three  days  be- 
fore this,  and  how  Murdoch  had  told  him  he 
was  in  love  wi'  a  maigdeannhmara,  a  sea- 
maid. 

"  But  this  thing  has  to  be  known.  It  was  a 
month  later,  on  the  night  o'  the  full  moon,  that 
Ian  Finlay  and  Ian  Macarthur  and  Seumas 
Macallum  were  upset  in  the  calm  water  inside 
the  Sound,  just  off  Port-na-Frang,  and  were 
nigh  drowned,  but  that  they  called  upon  God 
and  the  Son,  and  so  escaped  and  heard  no 
more  the  laughter  of  Murdoch  from  the  sea. 

"  And  at  midnight  my  father  heard  the 
voice  of  his  eldest  son  at  the  door;  but  he 
would  not  let  him  in ;  but  in  the  morning  he 
found  his  boat  broken  and  shred  in  splinters, 
and  his  one  net  all  torn.  An'  that  day  was 
the  Sabbath ;  so  being  a  holy  day  he  took  the 

89 


The  Judgment  o'  God 

Scripture  with  him,  an'  he  and  Neil  Morrison 
the  minister,  having  had  the  Bread  an'  Wine, 
went  along  the  Sound  in  a  boat,  following  a 
shadow  in  the  water,  till  they  came  to  Soa. 
An'  there  Neil  Morrison  read  the  Word  o' 
God  to  the  seals  that  lay  baskin'  in  the  sun; 
and  one,  a  female,  snarled  and  showed  her 
fangs ;  and  another,  a  black  one,  lifted  its 
head,  and  made  a  noise  that  was  not  like  the 
barking  of  any  seal,  but  was  as  the  laughter 
of  Murdoch  when  he  swung  the  dead  body 
of  Deirg. 

"  And  that  is  all  that  is  to  be  said.  And 
silence  is  best  now  between  you  and  any  other. 
And  no  man  knows  the  judgments  o'  God. 

"  And  that  is  all." 


90 


THE  HARPING  OF  CRAVETHEEN 

When  Cormac,  that  was  known  throughout 
all  Northern  Eire  as  Cormac  Conlingas,  Cor- 
mac the  son  of  Concobar  the  son  of  Nessa, 
was  one  of  the  ten  hostages  to  Conairy  Mor 
for  the  leaky  of  the  Ultonians,  he  was  loved 
by  men  and  women  because  of  his  strength, 
his  valour,  and  his  comeliness. 

He  was  taller  than  the  tallest  of  his  nine 
comrades  by  an  inch,  and  broader  by  two 
inches  than  the  broadest ;  though  that  fellow- 
ship of  nine  was  of  the  tallest  and  broadest 
men  among  the  Ultonians,  who  were  the 
greatest  warriors  that  green  Banba,  as  Eire 
or  Erin  was  called  by  the  bards  who  loved  her, 
has  ever  seen. 

The  shenachies  sang  of  him  as  a  proud 
champion,  with  eyes  full  of  light  and  fire,  his 
countenance  broad  above  and  narrow  below, 
ruddy-faced,  with  hair  as  of  the  gold  of  the 
September  moon. 

The  commonalty  spoke  of  his  mighty  spear- 
thrust,  of  his  deft  sword-swing,  the  terror  of 
his  wrath,  of  the  fury  of  his  battle-lust,  of  his 
laughter  and  light  joy,  and  the  singing  that 

91 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

was  on  his  lips  when  his  sword  had  the  silence 
upon  it.  No  man  dared  touch  "  Blue-Green," 
as  Cormac  Conlingas  called  it — the  "  Whis- 
pering Sword,"  as  it  was  named  among  his 
fellows.  "  Blue-Green,"  for  in  its  sweep  it 
gleamed  blue-green  as  the  leaping  levin,  whis- 
pered whenever  it  was  athirst,  and  a  red 
draught  it  was  that  would  quench  that  thirst, 
and  no  other  draught  for  the  drinking;  and 
it  whispered  when  there  was  a  ferment  of 
the  red  blood  among  men  who  hated  while 
they  feared  the  Ultonians ;  and  it  whispered 
whenever  a  shadow  dogged  the  shadow  of 
Cormac,  the  son  of  Concobar  the  son  of  Nes- 
sa.  Therefore  it  was  that  of  all  who  desired 
his  death,  there  was  none  that  did  not  fear 
the  doom-whisper  of  the  sword  that  had  been 
forged  by  Len,  the  Smith,  where  he  sits  and 
works  forever  amid  his  mist  of  rainbows. 
Women  spoke  of  his  strength  as  though  it 
were  their  proud  beauty.  He  had  the  way 
of  the  sunlight  with  him,  they  said.  And  of 
the  sunfire,  added  ever  one,  below  her 
breath ;  and  that  was  Eilidh,^  the  daughter  of 

iThe  name  Eilidh  (pronounced  EilVih,  or  I sle-ee 
with  a  long  accent  on  the  first  syllable)  is  also 
ancient,  but  lingers  in  the  Isles  still,  and  indeed 
throughout  the  Western  Highlands,  as  also,  I  under- 
stand, in  Connaught  and  Connemara.  Somhairle 
(Somerled)  is  pronounced  So-irl-u. 

92 


The  Harping  of  Cravethcen 

Conn  Mac  Art  and  of  Dearduil,  the  daughter 
of  Somhairle,  the  Prince  of  the  Isles — Eilidh, 
the  daughter  of  Dearduil  the  daughter  of 
Morna,  the  three  queens  of  beauty  in  the 
three  generations  of  the  generations. 

She  was  not  of  the  Ultonians,  this  fair 
Eilidh;  but  of  the  people  who  were  subject 
to  Conairy  Mor.  It  was  when  the  ten  hos- 
tages abode  with  the  Red  Prince  that  she  grew 
faint  and  wan  with  the  love-sickness.  Her 
mother,  Dearduil^  knew  who  the  man  was. 
She  put  a  mirror  of  polished  steel  against  the 
mouth  of  the  girl  while  she  slept,  and  then 
it  was  that  she  saw  the  flames  of  love  burn- 
ing a  red  heart  on  which  was  written  in  white 
fire — "  I  am  the  heart  of  Cormac,  the  son  of 
Concobar."  Gladness  was  hers,  as  well  as 
fear.  Sure,  there  was  no  greater  hero  than 
Cormac  Conlingas ;  but  then  he  was  an  Ul- 
tonian,  and  would  soon  be  for  going  away ; 
and  ill-pleased  would  Conairy  Mor  be  that 
the  beautiful  Eilidh,  who  was  his  ward  since 
the  death  of  Conn,  should  be  the  wife  of  one 
of  the  men  of  Concobar  Mac  Nessa  whom  in 
his  heart  he  hated. 

There  was  a  warrior  there  called  Art  Mac 
Art  Mor.  Conairy  Mor  favoured  him,  and 
had  promised  him  Eilidh.  One  day  this  man 
came  to  the  overlord,  and  said  this  thing: 

93 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

"  Is  she,  Eilidh,  to  be  hearing  the  lowing  of 
the  kine  that  are  upon  my  hills  ?  " 

"  That  is  so,  Art  Mac  Art." 

"  I  have  spoken  to  the  girl.  She  is  like  the 
wind  in  the  grass." 

"  It  is  the  way  of  women.  Follow,  and 
trace,  and  you  shall  not  find.  But  say  '  Come,' 
and  they  will  come ;  and  say  '  Do,'  and  they 
will  obey." 

"  I  have  put  the  word  upon  her,  and  she  has 
laugiied  at  me.  I  have  said  '  Come,'  and  she 
asked  me  if  the  running  wave  heard  the  voice 
of  yesterday's  wind.  I  have  said  '  Do,'  and 
she  called  to  me,  '  Do  the  hills  nod  when  the 
fox  barks? '  " 

"  What  is  the  thing  that  is  behind  your  lips, 
Art  Mac  Art  Mor?" 

"  This.  That  you  send  the  man  away  who 
is  the  cause  of  the  mischief  that  is  upon 
Eilidh." 

"  W'ho  is  the  man  ?  " 

"  He  is  of  the  Hostages." 

Conairy  ]\I6r  brooded  awhile.  Then  he 
stroked  his  beard,  brown-black  as  burn-water 
in  shadow;  and  laughed. 

"  Why  is  there  laughter  upon  you,  my 
king?" 

"  Sure,  I  laugh  to  think  of  the  blood  of  a 
white  maid.    They  say  it  is  of  milk,  but  I  am 

94 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

thinking  it  must  be  the  milk  of  the  hero- 
women  of  old  that  was  red  and  warm  as  the 
stream  the  White  Hound  that  courses  through 
the  night  swims  in.  And  that  blood  that  is 
in  Eilidh  leads  to  the  blood  of  heroes.  She 
would  have  the  weight  of  Cormac,  the  Yel- 
low-haired, on  her  breast !  " 

"  His  blood  or  mine !  " 

The  king  kept  silence  for  a  time.  Then  he 
smiled,  and  that  boded  ill.  Then,  after  a 
while,  he  frowned,  and  that  was  not  so  ill. 

"  Not  thine.  Art." 

"  And  if  not  mine,  what  of  Cormac  Mac 
Concobar  ?  " 

"  He  shall  go." 

"Alone?" 

"  Alone." 

And,  sure,  it  was  on  the  eve  of  that  day 
that  Dearduil  went  to  warn  Cormac  Con- 
lingas,  and  to  beg  him  to  leave  the  whiteness 
of  the  snow  without  a  red  stain. 

But,  when  she  entered  his  sleeping-place, 
Eilidh  was  there,  upon  the  deer-skins. 

Dearduil  looked  for  long  before  she  spoke. 

"  By  what  is  in  your  eyes,  Eilidh  my  daugh- 
ter, this  is  not  the  first  time  you  have  come  to 
Cormac  Conlingas  ?  " 

The  girl  laughed  low.  The  white  arms  of 
her  moved  through  the  sheen  of  her  hair  like 

95 


The  Harping  of  Cravethcen 

sickles  among  the  corn.  She  looked  at  Cor- 
mac.  The  flame  that  was  in  her  eyes  was 
bright  in  his.  The  wife  of  Conn  turned  to 
him. 

"  No,"  he  said  gravely,  "  it  is  not  the  first 
time." 

"  Has  the  seed  been  sown,  O  husband- 
man?" 

"  The  seed  has  been  sown." 

"  It  is  death." 

"  The  tide  flows,  the  tide  ebbs." 

"  Cormac,  there  will  be  two  dead  this  night 
if  Conary  Mor  hears  this  thing.  And  even 
now  his  word  moves  against  you.  Do  you 
love  Eildih  ? " 

Cormac  smiled  slightly,  but  made  no  an- 
swer. 

"If  you  love  her,  you  would  not  see  her 
slam. 

"  There  is  no  great  evil  in  being  slain,  Dear- 
duil-nic-Somhairle." 

"  She  is  a  woman,  and  she  has  your  child 
below  her  heart." 

"  That  is  a  true  thing." 

"Will  you  save  her?" 

"  If  she  will." 

"  Speak,  Eilidh." 

Then  the  terror  that  was  in  the  girl's  heart 
arose  and  moved  about  like  a  white  bewil- 

96 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

dered  bird  in  the  dark.  She  knew  that  Dear- 
duil  had  spoken  out  of  her  heart.  She  knew 
that  Art  Mac  Art  Mor  was  in  this  evil.  She 
knew  that  death  was  near  for  Cormac,  and 
near  for  her.  The  hmbs  that  had  trembled 
with  love,  trembled  now  with  the  breath  of  the 
fear.    Suddenly  she  drew  a  long  sobbing  sigh. 

"  Speak,  Eilidh." 

She  turned  her  face  to  the  wall. 

"  Speak,  Eilidh." 

"  I  will  speak.     Go,  Cormac  Conlingas." 

The  chief  of  the  Ultonians  started.  This 
doom  to  life  was  worse  to  him  than  the  death- 
doom.  An  angry  flame  burned  in  his  eyes. 
His  lip  curled. 

"  May  it  not  be  a  man-child  you  will  have, 
Eilidh  of  the  gold-brown  hair,"  he  said  scorn- 
fully, "  for  it  would  be  an  ill  thing  for  a  son 
of  Cormac  Mac  Concobar  to  be  a  coward,  as 
his  mother  was,  and  to  fear  death  as  she  did, 
though  never  before  her  any  of  her  race." 

And  with  that  he  turned  upon  his  heel,  and 
went  out. 

Cormac  Conlingas  had  not  gone  far  when 
he  met  Art  ]\Iac  Art  Mor,  with  the  others. 

"  It  is  the  king's  word,"  said  Art,  simply. 

"  I  am  ready,"  answered  Cormac.  "  Is  it 
death  ?  " 

"  Come ;  the  king  shall  tell  you." 

97 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

But  there  was  to  be  no  blood  that  night. 
Only,  on  the  morrow  the  hostages  were  nine. 
The  tenth  man  rode  slowly  north-eastward, 
against  the  greying  of  the  dawn. 

If,  in  the  heart  of  Cormac  Conlingas,  there 
was  sorrow  and  a  bitter  pain,  because  of  Ei- 
lidh,  whom  he  loved,  and  from  whom  he  would 
fain  have  taken  the  harshness  of  his  word, 
there  was,  in  the  heart  of  Eilidh,  the  sound  as 
of  trodden  sods. 

That  day  it  was  worse  for  her. 

Conairy  Mor  came  to  her  himself.  Art  was 
at  his  right  hand.  The  king  asked  her  if  she 
would  give  her  troth  to  the  son  of  Art-M6r, 
and,  that  being  given,  if  she  would  be  his  wife. 

"  That  cannot  be,"  she  said.  The  fear  that 
had  been  in  the  girl's  heart  was  dead  now. 
The  saying  of  Cormac  had  killed  it.  She 
knew  that,  like  her  ancestor,  the  mother  of 
Somhairle,  she  could,  if  need  be,  have  a  log 
of  burning  wood  against  her  breast  and  face 
the  torture  as  though  she  were  no  more  than 
holding  a  dead  child  there. 

"  And  for  why  cannot  it  be  ?  "  asked  Con- 
airy  Mor. 

"  For  it  is  not  Art's  child  that  I  carry  in  my 
womb,"  answered  Eilidh,  simply. 

The  king  gloomed.     Art  Mac  Art  put  his 

98 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

right  hand  to  the  dagger  at  his  silver-bossed 
leathern  belt. 

"  Is  it  a  wanton  that  you  are  ?  " 

"  No :  by  my  mother's  truth,  and  the  mo- 
ther of  my  mother.  I  love  another  man  than 
Art  Mac  Art  Mor,  and  that  man  loves  me, 
and  I  am  his." 

"Who  is  this  man?" 

"  His  name  is  in  my  heart  only." 

"  I  will  ask  you  three  things,  Eilidh,  daugh- 
ter of  Dearduil.  Is  the  man  one  of  your  race  ? 
is  he  of  noble  blood?  is  he  fit  to  wed  the 
king's  ward  ?  " 

"  He  is  more  fit  to  wed  the  king's  ward  than 
any  man  in  Eire.  He  is  of  noble  blood,  and 
himself  the  son  of  a  king.  But  he  is  an  Ul- 
tonian." 

"  Thou  hast  said.  It  is  Cormac  Mac  Con- 
cobar  Mac  Nessa. 

"  It  is  Cormac  Conlingas." 

With  a  loud  laugh  Art  Mac  Art  strode  for- 
ward. He  raised  his  hand  and  flung  it  across 
the  face  of  the  girl. 

"  Art  thou  his  tenth  or  his  hundredth  ? 
Well,  I  would  not  have  you  now  as  a  serving- 
wench." 

Once  more  the  king  gloomed.  It  went  ill 
with  him,  that  sight  of  a  man  striking  a  wo- 
man, howsoever  lightly. 

99 


The  Harping  of  Cravctheen 

"  Art,  I  have  slain  a  better  man  than  you, 
for  a  thing  less  worthy  than  that.  Take 
heed." 

The  man  frowned,  with  the  red  light  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Will  you  do  as  you  said,  O  king?  " 

"  No,  not  now.  Eilidh,  that  blow  has  saved 
you.  I  was  going  to  let  Art  have  his  way  of 
you,  and  then  do  with  you  what  he  willed, 
servitude  or  death.  But  now  you  are  free 
of  him.  Only  this  thing  I  say;  no  Ulton- 
ian  shall  ever  take  you  in  his  arms.  You 
shall  wed  Cravetheen,  the  step-brother  of 
Art." 

"Cravetheen  the  Harper?" 

"  Even  so." 

"  He  is  old,  and  is  neither  comely  nor  gra- 
cious." 

"  There  is  no  age  upon  him  that  a  maid  need 
mock  at ;  and  he  is  gracious  enough  to  those 
who  do  not  cross  him  ;  and  he  has  the  mouth 
of  honey,  he  has,  and,  if  not  as  comely  as 
Cormac  Conlingas,  is  yet  fair  to  see." 

"  But—" 

"  I  have  said." 

And  so  it  was.  Cravetheen  took  Eilidh  to 
wife.  But  he  left  the  great  Dun  of  Conairy 
Mor  and  went  to  live  in  his  own  dun  in  the 

lOO 


The  Harping  of  Cravethcen 

forest  that  clothed  the  frontiers  of  the  land 
of  the  Ultonians. 

He  took  his  harp  that  night  when  for  the 
first  time  she  lay  upon  the  deerskins  in  his 
dun,  and  he  played  a  wild  air,  Eilidh  listened. 
The  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  Then  deep 
shadows  darkened  them.  Then  she  clenched 
her  hands  till  the  nails  drew  blood.  At  last 
she  lay  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  trembling. 

For  Cravetheen  was  a  harper  that  had  been 
taught  by  a  Green  Hunter  on  the  slopes  of 
Sliav-Sheean.  He  could  say  that  in  music  that 
the  Druids  themselves  could  not  say  aright  in 
words. 

And  when  he  had  ended  he  went  over  to  his 
wife,  and  said  this  only : 

"  No,  Eilidh,  for  all  you  are  so  white  and 
soft,  and  for  all  the  sweet  ways  of  you,  I  shall 
not  be  laying  my  heart  upon  yours  this  night, 
nor  for  many  nights.  But  a  day  shall  come 
when  I  will  be  playing  you  a  marriage  song. 
But  before  that  day  I  will  play  to  you  twice." 
"  And  beware  the  third  playing  "  said,  when 
he  had  gone,  his  old  mother,  who  sat  before 
the  smouldering  logs,  crooning  and  muttering. 

As  for  the  second  playing;  that  was  not  till 
months  later.  It  was  at  the  set  of  the  sun  that 
had  shone  on  the  birthing  of  the  child  of 
Eilidh  and  Cormac  Conlingas, 

lOI 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

All  through  the  soundless  labour  of  the 
woman,  for  she  had  the  pride  of  pride,  Crave- 
theen the  Harper  played.  \\'hat  he  played 
was  that  the  child  might  be  born  dead.  Eilidh 
knew  this,  and  gave  it  the  breath  straight  from 
her  heart.  "  My  pulse  to  you,"  she  whispered 
between  her  smothered  sobs.  Then  Crave- 
theen played  that  it  might  be  born  blind  and 
deaf  and  dumb.  But  Eilidh  knew  this,  and 
she  whispered  to  the  soul  that  was  behind 
her  eyes,  Gwe  it  light ;  and  to  the  soul  that  was 
listening  behind  her  ears.  Give  it  hearing:  and 
to  the  soul  whose  silence  was  beneath  her 
silence,  Give  it  speech. 

And  so  the  child  was  born;  and  it  was  a 
man-child,  and  fair  to  see. 

When  the  swoon  was  upon  Eilidh,  Crave- 
theen ceased  from  his  harping.  He  rose,  and 
looked  upon  the  woman.  Then  he  lifted 
the  child,  and  laid  it  on  a  doeskin  in  the 
sunlight,  on  a  green  place,  that  was  the 
meeting-place  of  the  moonshine  dancers.  With 
that  he  took  up  his  harp  again,  and  again 
played. 

At  the  first  playing,  the  birds  ceased  from 
singing:  there  was  silence  amid  the  boughs. 
At  the  second,  the  leaves  ceased  from  rustling : 
there  was  silence  on  the  branches.  At  the 
third,  the  hare  leaped  no  more,  the  fox  blinked 

1 02 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

with  sleep,  the  wolf  lay  down.  At  the  fourth, 
and  fifth,  and  sixth,  the  wind  folded  its  wings 
like  a  great  bird,  the  wood-breeze  crept  be- 
neath the  bracken  and  fell  asleep,  the  earth 
sighed  and  was  still.  There  was  silence  there 
— for  sure,  silence  everywhere,  as  of  sleep. 

At  the  seventh  playing,  the  quiet  people 
came  out  upon  the  green  place.  They  were 
small  and  dainty,  clad  in  green  with  small, 
white  faces;  just  like  lilies-of-the-valley  they 
were. 

They  laughed  low  among  themselves,  and 
some  clapped  their  hands.  One  climbed  a  this- 
tle, and  swung  round  and  round  till  he  fell  on 
his  back  with  a  thud,  like  the  fall  of  a  dew- 
drop,  and  cried  pitifully.  There  was  no  peace 
till  a  diiinshee  took  him  by  a  green  leg,  and 
shoved  him  down  a  hole  in  the  grass  and 
stopped  it  with  a  dandelion. 

Then  one  among  them,  with  a  scarlet  robe 
and  a  green  cap  with  a  thread  of  thistledown 
waving  from  it  like  a  plume,  and  with  his  wee, 
wee  eyes  aflame,  stepped  forward,  and  began 
to  play  on  a  little  harp  made  of  a  bird-bone 
with  three  gossamer-films  for  strings.  And 
the  wild  air  that  he  played  and  the  songs  that 
he  sang  were  those  fonnsheen  that  few  hear 
now,  but  that  those  who  do  hear  know  to  be 
sweeter  than  the  sorrow  of  joy. 

103 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

Suddenly  Cravetheen  ceased  playing,  and 
then  there  was  silence  with  the  Green  Harper 
also. 

All  of  the  hillside-folk  stood  still.  When 
an  eddy  of  air  moved  along  the  grass  they 
wavered  to  and  fro  like  reeds  with  the  cool- 
ness at  their  feet. 

Then  the  Green  Harper  threw  aside  his 
scarlet  cloak  and  his  green  cap,  and  the  hair 
of  him  was  white  and  flowing  as  the  Caiuia. 
He  broke  the  three  threads  of  gossamer,  and 
flung  away  the  bird-bone  harp.  Then  he  drew 
a  wee  bit  reed  from  his  waist-band  that  was 
made  of  beaten  gold,  and  put  it  to  his  lips, 
and  began  to  play.  And  what  he  played  was 
so  passing  sweet  that  Cravetheen  went  into  a 
dream,  and  played  the  same  wild  air,  and  he 
not  knowing  it,  nor  any  man. 

It  was  with  that  that  the  soul  of  the  child 
heard  the  elfin-music,  and  came  free.  Sure,  it 
is  a  hard  thing  for  the  naked  spirit  to  steal 
away  from  its  warm  home  of  the  flesh,  with 
the  blood  coming  and  going  forever  like  a 
mother's  hand,  warm  and  soft.  But  to  the 
playing  of  Cravetheen  and  the  Green  Harp- 
er there  was  no  denying.  The  soul  came 
forth,  and  stood  with  great  frightened 
eyes. 

"Shrink!   Shrink!    Shrink!"  cried  all  the 

104 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

quiet  people,  and,  as  they  cried,  the  human 
spirit  shrank  so  as  to  be  at  one  with  them. 

Then,  as  it  seemed,  two  shining  white  flow- 
ers— for  they  were  bonnie,  bonnie — stepped 
forward  and  took  the  human  by  the  hand,  and 
led  it  away.  And  as  they  went,  the  others  fol- 
lowed, all  singing  a  glad  song,  that  fell  strange 
and  faint  upon  the  ear  of  Cravetheen.  All 
passed  into  the  hillside,  save  the  Green  Harp- 
er, who  stopped  awhile,  playing  and  playing 
and  playing,  till  Cravetheen  dreamed  he 
was  Alldai,  the  God  of  Gods,  and  that  the 
sun  was  his  bride,  and  the  moon  his  para- 
mour, and  the  stars  his  children  and  the 
joys  that  were  before  him.  Then  he,  too, 
passed. 

With  that,  Cravetheen  came  out  of  his 
trance,  and  rubbed  his  eyes  as  a  man  startled 
from  sleep. 

He  looked  at  the  child.  It  would  be  a 
changeling  now,  he  knew.  But  when  he 
looked  again  he  saw  that  it  was  dead. 

So  he  called  to  Gealcas,  that  was  his 
mother,  and  gave  her  the  body. 

"Take  that  to  Eilidh,"  he  said,  "and  tell 
her  that  this  is  the  second  playing;  and  that  I 
will  be  playing  once  again,  before  it's  breast 
to  breast  with  us." 

And  these  were  the  words  that  Gealcas  said 

105 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

to  Eilidh,  who  in  her  heart  cursed  Crave- 
theen, and  mocked  his  cruel  patience,  and 
longed  for  Cormac  of  the  Yellow  Hair,  and 
cared  not  for  all  the  harping  that  Cravetheen 
could  do  now. 

It  was  the  Month  of  the  White  Flowers 
that  Cormac  Conlingas  came  again. 

He  was  in  the  southland  when  news  reached 
him  that  his  father,  Concobar  Mac  Nessa,  was 
dead.  He  knew  that  if  he  were  not  speedily 
in  Ulster,  the  Ultonians  might  not  grant  him 
the  Ard-Righship.  He,  surely,  and  no  other, 
should  be  Ard-Righ  after  Concobar;  yet  there 
was  one  other  who  might  well  become  over- 
lord of  the  Ultonians  in  his  place,  were  he  not 
swift  with  word  and  act. 

So  swift  was  he  that  he  mounted  and  rode 
away  from  his  fellows  without  taking  with 
him  the  famous  Spear  of  Pisarr,  which  was  a 
terror  in  battle.  This  was  that  fiery,  living 
spear,  wrought  by  the  son  of  Turenn,  and  won 
out  of  Eire  by  the  god  Lu  Lam-fada.  In  bat- 
tle it  flew  hither  and  thither,  a  live  thing. 

He  rode  from  noon  to  wathin  an  hour  of 
the  setting  of  the  sun.  Then  he  saw  a  long, 
green  hill  rise  like  a  pine-cone  out  of  the 
wood,  bossed  with  still-standing  stones  of  an 
ancient  ruined  diin.     Against  it  a  blue  column 

1 06 


The  Harping  of  Cravethcen 

of  smoke  trailed.  Cormac  knew  now  where 
he  was.  Word  had  come  to  him  recently  from 
Eilidh  herself. 

He  drew  rein,  and  stared  awhile.  Then  he 
smiled ;  then  once  more  he  gloomed,  and  his 
eyes  were  heavy  with  the  shadow  of  that 
gloom. 

It  was  then  that  he  drew  "  Blue-Green  " 
from  its  sheath,  and  listened.  There  was  a 
faint  mumiur  along  the  blade,  as  of  gnats 
above  a  pool ;  but  there  was  no  whispering. 

Once  more  he  smiled. 

"  It  will  be  for  the  happening,"  he  mur- 
mured. Then,  leaning  back,  he  sang  this 
Rune  to  Eilidh. 

Oim^,  Oim^,  Woman  of  the  white  breasts,  Eilidh; 
Woman  of  the  gold-brown  hair,  and  lips  of  the  red, 
red  rowan! 

Oimd,  0-rJ,  Oimdl 

Where  is  the  swan  that  is  whiter,  with  breast  more 

soft, 
Or  the  wave  on  the  sea  that  moves  as  thou  movest 

Eilidh— 

Oim^,  a-r6;  Oimd,  a-r6! 

It  is  the  marrow  in  my  bones  that  is  aching,  aching, 

Eilidh; 
It  is  the  blood  in  my  body  that  is  a  bitter,  wild  tide 
Oim^! 

0-ri,  0-hion,  O-ri,  ar5ne! 
107 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

Is  it  the  heart  of  thee  calling  that  I  ain  hearing, 

Eilidh, 
Or  the  wind  in  the  wood,  or  the  beating  of  the  sea, 

Eilidh, 

Or  the  beating  of  the  sea? 

Shule,  shule  agrah,  shule  agrah,  shule  agrhh,  Shule! 
Heart  of  me,  move  to  me!  move  to  me!  heart  of  me, 
Eilidh,  Eilidh, 

Move  to  me! 

Ah,  let  the  wild  hawk  take  it,  the  name  of  me,  Cormac 

Conlingas, 
Take  it  and  tear  at  thy  heart  with  it,  heart  that  of  old 

was  so  hot  with  it, 

Eilidh,  Eilidh,  o-ri,  Eilidh,  Eilidh! 

And  the  last  words  of  that  song  were  so 
loud  and  clear — loud  and  clear  as  the  voice  of 
the  war-horn — that  Eilidh  heard.  The  heart 
of  her  leaped,  the  breast  of  her  heaved,  the 
pulses  danced  in  the  surge  of  the  blood.  Once 
more  it  was  with  her  as  though  she  were  with 
child  by  Cormac  Conlingas,  She  bade  the  old 
mother  of  Cravetheen  and  all  who  abode  in 
the  dun  to  remain  within,  and  not  one  to  put 
the  gaze  upon  the  grianan,  her  own  place 
there,  or  upon  whom  she  should  lead  to  it. 
Then  she  went  forth  to  meet  Cormac,  glad  to 
think  of  Cravetheen  far  thence  on  the  hunt- 
ing, and  not  to  be  back  again  till  the  third  day. 

It  was  a  meeting  of  two  waves,  that.  Each 
was  lost  in  the  other.    Then,  after  long  look- 

io8 


The  Harping  of  Cravcthcen 

ing  in  the  eyes,  and  with  the  words  aswoon 
on  the  Hps,  they  moved  hand  in  hand  toward 
the  Diin. 

And  as  they  moved,  the  Whispering-  of  the 
Sword  made  a  sound  Hke  the  going  of  wind 
through  grass. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  EiHdh,  her  eyes  large. 

"  It  is  the  wind  in  the  grass,"  Cormac  an- 
swered. 

And  as  they  entered  the  Dun  the  Whisper- 
ing of  the  Sword  made  a  confused  murmur 
as  of  the  wind  among  swaying  pines. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  EiHdh  asked,  fear  in  her 
eyes. 

"  It  is  the  wind  in  the  forest,"  said  Cor- 
mac. 

But  when^  after  he  had  eaten  and  drunken, 
they  went  up  to  the  Grianan,  and  lay  down 
upon  the  deer-skins,  the  Whispering  of  the 
Sword  was  so  loud  that  it  was  as  the  surf  of 
the  sea  in  a  wild  wind. 

"  What  is  that?  "  cried  Eilidh,  with  a  sob  in 
her  throat. 

"  It  is  the  wind  on  the  sea,"  Cormac  said, 
his  voice  hoarse  and  low. 

"  There  is  no  sea  within  three  days'  march," 
whispered  Eilidh,  as  she  clasped  her  hands. 

But  Cormac  said  nothing.  And,  now,  the 
Sword  was  silent  also. 

109 


The  Harping  of  Cravctheen 

It  was  starshine  when  Cravetheen  returned. 
He  was  playing  one  of  the  fonnshccn  he  knew, 
as  he  came  through  the  wood  in  the  moon- 
Hght;  for  in  the  hunting  of  a  stag  he  had 
made  a  great  circle  and  was  now  near 
Dunchraig  again,  Dunchraig  that  was  his 
Dijn.  But  he  had  left  his  horse  with  his  kin- 
dred in  the  valley,  and  had  come  afoot 
through  the  wood. 

He  stopped  as  he  was  nigh  upon  the  rocks 
against  which  the  Dijn  was  built.  He  saw 
the  blackness  of  the  shadow  of  a  living 
thing. 

"Who  is  that?"  he  cried. 

"  It  is  I,  Murtagh  Lam-Rossa," — and  with 
that  a  man  out  of  the  Dun  came  forward 
slowly  and  hesitatingly.  He  was  a  man  who 
hated  Eilidh,  because  she  had  put  him  to 
shame. 

Cravetheen  looked  at  him. 

"  I  am  waiting,"  he  said. 

Still  the  man  hesitated. 

"  I  am  waiting,  Murtagh  Lam-Rossa." 

"  This  is  a  bitter  thing  I  have  to  say.  I 
was  on  my  way  for  the  telling." 

"  It  is  of  Eilidh  that  is  my  wife  ?  " 

"  You  have  said  it." 

"  Speak." 

"  She  does  not  sleep  alone  in  the  Grianan, 

no 


The  Harping  of  Cravctheen 

and  there  is  no  one  of  the  Dun  who  is  there 
with  her." 

"Who  is  there?" 

'"  A  man." 

"  Cravetheen  drew  a  long  breath.  His  hand 
went  to  the  wolf-knife  at  his  belt. 

"  What  man  ?  " 

"  Cormac  mac  Concobar,  that  is  called  Cor- 
mac  Conlingas." 

Again  Cravetheen  drew  a  deep  breath,  and 
the  blood  was  on  his  lip. 

"You  are  knowing  this  thing  for  sure?" 

"  I  am  knowing  it." 

"  That  is  what  no  other  man  shall  do — " 
and  with  that  Cravetheen  flashed  the  wolf- 
knife  in  the  moonshine,  and  thrust  it  with  a 
sucking  sound  into  the  heart  of  Murtagh 
Lam-Rossa. 

With  a  groan  the  man  sank.  His  white 
hands  wandered  among  the  fibrous  dust  of 
the  pine-needles :  his  face  was  as  a  livid  wave 
with  the  foam  of  death  on  it. 

Cravetheen  looked  at  the  froth  on  his  lips; 
it  was  like  that  of  the  sped  deer.  He  looked 
at  the  bubbles  about  the  hilt  of  the  knife ;  they 
were  as  the  yeast  of  cranberries. 

"  That  is  the  sure  way  of  silence,"  he  said ; 
and  he  moved  on,  and  thought  no  more  of  the 
man. 

Ill 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

In  the  shadow  of  the  Dun  lie  stood  a  long 
while  in  thought.  He  could  not  reach  the 
Grianan,  he  knew.  Swords  and  spears  for 
Eilidh,  before  then,  mayhap ;  and,  if  not,  there 
was  Cormac  Conlingas — and  not  Cormac 
only,  but  the  Sword  "  Blue-Green,"  and  the 
Spear  "  Pisarr." 

But  a  thought  drove  into  his  mind  as  a 
wind  into  a  corrie.  He  put  back  his  sword, 
and  took  his  harp  again.  "  It  is  the  third 
playing,"  he  muttered  and  smiled  grimly, 
knowing  that  he  smiled.  Then  once  more  he 
stood  on  the  green  rath  of  the  quiet  people, 
and  played  the  fonnshccn,  till  they  heard.  And 
when  the  old  elfin  harper  was  come,  Crave- 
theen played  the  Tune  of  the  Asking. 

"  What  will  you  be  wanting,  Cravetheena 
Mac  Roury,"  asked  the  Green  Harper. 

"  The  Tune  of  the  Trancing  Sleep,  green 
prince  of  the  hill." 

"  Sure,  you  shall  have  it  .  .  ."  and  with 
that  the  Green  Harper  gave  the  magic  mel- 
ody, so  that  not  a  leaf  stirred,  not  a  bird 
moved,  and  even  the  dew  ceased  to  fall. 

Then  Cravetheen  took  his  harp  and  played. 

The  dogs  in  the  dun  rose,  but  none  howled. 
Then  all  lay  down  nosing  their  outstretched 
paws.  Thrice  the  stallions  in  the  rear  of  the 
Dun  put  back  their  ears,  but  no  neighing  was 

112 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

on  their  curled  lips.  The  mares  whimpered, 
and  then  stood  with  heads  low,  asleep.  The 
armed  men  did  not  awake,  but  slumbered 
deep.  The  women  dreamed  into  the  darkness 
where  no  dream  is.  The  old  mother  of  Crave- 
theen stirred,  crooned  wearily,  bowed  her  grey 
head  and  was  in  Tir-na'n-6g  again,  walking 
with  Roury  mac  Roury  that  loved  her,  him 
that  was  slain  with  a  spear  and  a  sword  long, 
long  ago. 

Only  Eilidh  and  Cormac  Conlingas  were 
waking.  Sweet  was  that  wild  harping  against 
their  ears. 

"  It  will  be  the  Green  Harper  himself," 
whispered  Cormac,  drowsy  with  the  sleep  that 
was  upon  him. 

"  It  will  be  the  harping  of  Cravetheen  I  am 
thinking,"  said  Eilidh,  with  a  low  sigh,  3'et  as 
though  that  thing  were  nothing  to  her.  But 
Cormac  did  not  hear,  for  he  was  asleep. 

"  I  see  nine  shadows  leaping  upon  the 
wall,"  murmured  Eilidh,  while  her  heart  beat 
and  her  limbs  lay  in  chains. 

"  '.   .   .  move  to  mc,  heart  of  me,  Eilidh,  Eilidh, 
Move  to  me/'  " 

murmured  Cormac  in  his  dream. 

"  I  see  nine  hounds  leaping  into  the  Dun," 
Eilidh  cried,  though  none  heard. 

113 


The  Harping  of  Cravetheen 

Cormac  smiled  in  his  sleep. 

"  Ah,  ah^  I  see  nine  red  phantoms  leaping 
into  the  room !  "  screamed  Eilidh ;  but  none 
heard. 

Cormac  smiled  in  his  sleep. 

And  then  it  was  that  the  nine  red  flames 
grew  ninefold,  and  the  whole  dun  was 
wrapped  in  flame. 

For  this  was  the  doing  of  Cravetheen  the 
Harper.  All  there  died  in  the  flame.  That 
was  the  end  of  Eilidh,  that  was  so  fair.  She 
laughed  the  pain  away,  and  died.  And  Cor- 
mac smiled,  and  as  the  flame  leaped  on  his 
breast  he  muttered,  "  Ah,  hot  heart  of  Eilidh! 
— heart  to  me — move  to  me!  "    And  he  died. 

There  was  no  dun,  and  there  were  no  folk, 
and  no  stallions  and  mares^  and  no  baying 
hounds,  when  Cravetheen  ceased  from  the 
playing — but  only  ashes. 

He  looked  at  them  till  dawn.  Then  he 
rose,  and  he  broke  his  harp.  Northward  he 
went,  to  tell  the  Ultonians  that  thing,  and  to 
die  the  death. 

And  this  was  the  end  of  Cormac  the  Hero, 
Cormac  the  son  of  Concobar  the  son  of  Nessa, 
that  was  called  Cormac  Conlingas. 


114 


SILK    O'    THE   KINE^ 

"  What  I  shall  now  be  telling  you,"  said 
Ian  Mor  to  me  once — and  indeed,  I  should  re- 
member the  time  of  it  well,  for  it  was  in  the 
last  year  of  his  life,  when  rarely  any  other 
than  myself  saw  aught  of  Ian  of  the  Hills. 
"  What  I  shall  now  be  telling  you  is  an  ancient 
forgotten  tale  of  a  man  and  woman  of  the 
old  heroic  days.  The  name  of  the  man  was 
Isla,  and  the  name  of  the  woman  was  Eilidh." 

"  Ah  yes,  for  sure,"  Ian  added,  as  I  inter- 
rupted him ;  "  I  knew  you  would  be  saying 
that;  but  it  is  not  of  Eilidh  that  loved  Cor- 
niac  that  I  am  now  speaking.  Nor  am  I  tak- 
ing the  hidden  way  with  Isla,  that  was  my 
friend,  nor  with  Eilidh  that  is  my  name-child, 
whom  you  know.  Let  the  Birdeen  be,  bless 
her  bonnie  heart !  No,  what  I  am  for  telling 
you  is  all  as  new  to  you  as  the  green  grass  to 
a  lambkin ;  and  no  one  has  heard  it  from  these 

'  Silk  o'  the  Kine,  one  of  the  poetic  "secret"  names 
of  conquered  Erin,  was  in  ancient  days,  there  and  in 
the  Scottish  Isles,  a  designation  for  a  woman  of  rare 
beauty. 

115 


Silk  o'  the  Kine 

tired  lips  o'  mine  since  I  was  a  boy,  and 
learned  it  off  the  mouth  of  old  Barabol  Mac- 
Aodh,  that  was  my  foster-mother." 

Of  all  the  many  tales  of  the  olden  time  that 
Ian  Mor  told  me,  and  are  to  be  found  in 
no  book,  this  was  the  last.  That  is  why  I 
give  it  here,  where  I  have  spoken  much  of 
him. 

Ian  told  me  this  thing  one  winter  night, 
while  we  sat  before  the  peats,  where  the  ingle 
was  full  of  warm  shadows.  We  were  in  the 
croft  of  the  small  hill-farm  of  Glenivore, 
which  was  held  by  my  cousin,  Silis  Macfar- 
lane.  But  we  were  alone  then,  for  Silis  was 
over  at  the  far  end  of  the  Strath,  because  of 
the  baffling  against  death  of  her  dearest 
friend,  Giorsal  MacDiarmid. 

It  was  warm  there,  before  the  peats,  with  a 
thick  wedge  of  spruce  driven  into  the  heart  of 
them.  The  resin  crackled  and  sent  blue  sparks 
of  flame  up  through  the  red  and  yellow 
tongues  that  licked  the  sooty  chimney-slopes, 
in  which,  as  in  a  shell,  we  could  hear  an  end- 
less soughing  of  the  wind. 

Outside,  the  snow  lay  deep.  It  was  so  hard 
on  the  surface  that  the  white  hares,  leaping 
across  it,  went  soundless  as  shadows,  and  as 
trackless. 

ii6 


Silk  o'  the  Kine 

In  the  far-off  days,  when  Somhairle  was 
Maormor  of  the  Isles,  the  most  beautiful 
woman  of  her  time  was  named  Eilidh. 

The  king  had  sworn  that  whosoever  was 
his  best  man  in  battle,  when  next  the  Fomorian 
pirates  out  of  the  north  came  down  upon  the 
isles,  should  have  Eilidh  to  wife. 

Eilidh,  who,  because  of  her  soft,  white 
beauty,  for  all  the  burning  brown  of  her  by 
the  sun  and  wind,  was  also  called  Silk  o'  the 
Kine,  laughed  low  when  she  heard  this.  For 
she  loved  the  one  man  in  all  the  world  for 
her,  and  that  was  Isla,  the  son  of  Isla  Mor, 
the  blind  chief  of  Islay.  He,  too,  loved  her 
even  as  she  loved  him.  He  was  a  poet  as  well 
as  a  warrior,  and  scarce  she  knew  whether 
she  loved  best  the  fire  in  his  eyes  when,  girt 
with  his  gleaming  weapons  and  with  his  fair 
hair  unbound,  he  went  forth  to  battle:  or  the 
shine  in  his  eyes  when,  harp  in  hand,  he 
chanted  of  the  great  deeds  of  old,  or  made  a 
sweet  song  to  her,  Eilidh,  his  queen  of 
women;  or  the  flame  in  his  eyes  when,  meet- 
ing her  at  the  setting  of  the  sun,  he  stood 
speechless,  wrought  to  silence  because  of  his 
worshipping  love  of  her. 

One  day  she  bade  him  go  to  the  Isle  of  the 
Swans  to  fetch  her  enough  of  the  breast-down 
of  the  wild  cygnets  for  her  to  make  a  white 

117 


Silk  o'  the  Kine 

cloak  of.  While  he  was  still  absent — and  the 
going  there,  and  the  faring  thereupon,  and 
the  returning  took  three  days — the  Fomorians 
came  down  upon  the  Long  Island. 

It  was  a  hard  fight  that  was  fought,  but  at 
last  the  Norlanders  were  driven  back  with 
slaughter.  Somhairle,  the  Maomior,  was  all 
but  slain  in  that  fight,  and  the  corbies  would 
have  had  his  eyes  had  it  not  been  for  Osra 
Mac  Osra,  who  with  his  javelin  slew  the 
spearman  who  had  waylaid  the  king  while  he 
slipped  in  the  Fomorian  blood  he  had  spilt. 

While  the  ale  was  being  drunk  out  of  the 
great  horns  that  night,  Somhairle  called  for 
Eilidh. 

The  girl  came  to  the  rath  where  the  king 
and  his  warriors  feasted,  white  and  beautiful 
as  moonlight  among  turbulent,  black  waves. 

A  murmur  went  up  from  many  bearded 
lips.  The  king  scowled.  Then  there  was  si- 
lence. 

"I  am  here,  O  King,"  said  Eilidh.  The 
sweet  voice  of  her  was  like  soft  rain  in  the 
woods  at  the  time  of  the  greening. 

Somhairle  looked  at  her.  Sure,  she  was 
fair  to  see.  No  wonder  men  called  her  Silk 
o'  the  Kine.  His  pulse  beat  against  the 
stormy  tide  in  his  veins.  Then,  suddenly,  his 
gaze  fell  upon  Osra.     The  heart  of  his  kins- 

ii8 


Silk  o'  the  Kine 

man  that  had  saved  him  was  his  own ;  and  he 
smiled,  and  lusted  after  Eilidh  no  more. 

"  Eilidh,  that  are  called  Silk  o'  the  Kine, 
dost  thou  see  this  man  here  before  me  ?  " 

"  I  see  the  man." 

"  Let  the  name  of  him,  then,  be  upon  your 
lips." 

"  It  is  Osra  Mac  Osra." 

"  It  is  this  Osra  and  no  other  man  that  is  to 
wind  thee,  fair  Silk  o'  the  Kine.  And  by  the 
same  token,  I  have  sworn  to  him  that  he  shall 
lie  breast  to  breast  with  thee  this  night.  So 
go  hence  to  where  Osra  has  his  sleeping- 
place,  and  await  him  there  upon  the  deer- 
skins. From  this  hour  thou  art  his  wife.  It 
is  said." 

Then  a  silence  fell  again  upon  all  there, 
when,  after  a  loud  surf  of  babbling  laughter 
and  talk,  they  saw  that  Eilidh  stood  where  she 
was,  heedless  of  the  king's  word. 

Somhairle  gloomed.  The  great  black  eyes 
under  his  cloudy  mass  of  hair  flamed  upon 
her. 

"  Is  it  dumb  you  are,  Eilidh,"  he  said  at 
last,  in  a  cold,  hard  voice.  "  Or  do  you  wait 
for  Osra  to  take  you  hence  ?  " 

"  I  am  listening,"  she  answered,  and  that 
whisper  was  heard  by  all  there.  It  was  as  the 
wind  in  the  heather,  low  and  sweet. 

119 


Silk  o'  the  Kine 

Then  all  listened. 

The  playing  of  a  harp  was  heard.  None 
played  like  that,  save  Isla  Mac  Isla  Mor. 

Then  the  deer-skins  were  drawn  aside,  and 
Isla  came  among  those  who  feasted  there. 

"  Welcome,  O  thou  who  wast  afar  off  when 
the  foe  came,"  began  Somhairle,  with  bitter 
mocking. 

But  Isla  took  no  note  of  that.  He  went 
forward  till  he  was  nigh  upon  the  Maormor. 
Then  he  waited. 

"  Well,  Isla  that  is  called  Isla-Aluinn,  Isla 
fair-to-see,  what  is  the  thing  you  want  of  me, 
that  you  stand  there,  close-kin  to  death  I  am 
warning  you  ?  " 

"  I  want  Eilidh  that  is  called  Silk  o'  the 
Kine." 

"  Eilidh  is  the  wife  of  another  man." 

"  There  is  no  other  man,  O  King." 

"  A  brave  word  that !  And  who  says  it,  O 
Isla  my  over-lord  ?  " 

"  I  say  it." 

Somhairle,  the  great  Maormor,  laughed, 
and  his  laugh  was  like  a  black  bird  of  omen 
let  loose  against  a  night  of  storm. 

"And  what  of  EiHdh?" 

"  Let  her  speak." 

With  that  the  Maormor  turned  to  the  girl, 
who  did  not  quail. 

1 20 


Silk  o'  the  Ki'ne 

"  Speak,  Silk  o'  the  Kine !  " 

"  There  is  no  other  man,  O  King." 

"  Fool,  I  have  this  moment  wedded  you  and 
Osra  Mac  Osra." 

"  I  am  wife  to  Isla-Aluinn." 

"  Thou  canst  not  be  wife  to  two  men !  " 

"  That  may  be,  O  King.  I  know  not.  But 
I  am  wife  to  Isla-Aluinn. 

The  king  scowled  darkly.  None  at  the 
board  whispered  even.  Osra  shifted  uneasily, 
clasping  his  sword-hilt.  Isla  stood,  his  eyes 
ashine  as  they  rested  on  Eilidh.  He  knew 
nothing  in  life  or  death  could  come  between 
them. 

"  Art  thou  not  still  a  maid,  Eilidh  ?  "  Som- 
hairle  asked  at  last. 

"  No." 

"  Shame  to  thee,  wanton." 

The  girl  smiled.  But  in  her  eyes,  darkened 
now,  there  shone  a  flame. 

"Is  Isla-Aluinn  the  man?" 

"  He  is  the  man," 

With  that  the  king  laughed  a  bitter  laugh. 

"  Seize  him !  "  he  cried. 

But  Isla  made  no  movement.  So  those  who 
were  about  to  bind  him  stood  by,  ready  with 
naked  swords. 

"  Take  up  your  harp,"  said  Somhairle. 

Isla  stooped,  and  lifted  the  harp. 

121 


Silk  o'  the  Kine 

"  Play  now  the  wedding  song  of  Osra  Mac 
Osra  and  Eilidh  Silk  o'  the  Kine." 

Isla  smiled,  but  it  was  a  grim  smile  that, 
and  only  Eilidh  understood.  Then  he  struck 
the  harp,  and  he  sang  thus  far  this  song  out 
of  his  heart  to  the  woman  he  loved  better 
than  life. 

Eilidh,  Eilidh,  heart  oi  my  life,  my  pulse,  my  flame, 
There  are  two  men  loving  thee,  and  two  who  are 
calling  thee  wife! 

But  only  one  husband  to  thee,  Eilidh,  that  art  my 

wife  and  my  joy; 
Ay,  sure  thy  womb  knows  me  and  the  child  thou 

bearest  is  mine. 

Thou  to  me,  I  to  thee,  there  is  nought  else  in  the 

world,  Eilidh,  Silk  o'  the  Kine, — 
Nought  else  in  the  world,  no,  no  other  man  for  thee, 

no  woman  for  me! 

But  with  that  Somhairle  rose,  and  dashed 
the  hilt  of  his  great  spear  upon  the  ground. 

"  Let  the  twain  go,"  he  shouted. 

Then  all  stood  or  leaned  back,  as  Isla  and 
Eilidh  slowly  moved  through  their  midst,  hand 
in  hand.  Not  one  there  but  knew  they  went 
to  their  death. 

"  This  night  shall  be  theirs,"  cried  the  king 
with  mocking  wrath.     *'  Then,  Osra,  you  can 

122 


Silk  o'  the  Kinc 

have  your  will  of  Silk  o'  the  Kine  that  is  your 
wife,  and  have  Isla-Aluinn  to  be  your  slave — 
and  this  for  the  rising  and  setting  of  three 
moons  from  to-night.  Then  they  shall  each 
be  blinded  and  made  dumb,  and  that  for  the 
same  space  of  time.  And  at  the  end  of  that 
time  they  shall  be  thrown  upon  the  snow  to 
the  wolves." 

Nevertheless  Osra  groaned  in  his  heart  be- 
cause of  that  night  of  Isla  with  Eilidh.  Not 
all  the  years  of  the  years  couhl  give  him  a  joy 
like  unto  that. 

In  the  silence  of  the  mid-dark  he  went 
stealthily  to  where  the  twain  lay. 

It  was  there  he  was  found  in  the  morning, 
where  he  had  died  soundlessly,  with  Eilidh's 
dagger  up  to  the  hilt  in  his  heart. 

But  none  saw  them  go,  save  one;  and  that 
was  Sorch  the  brother  of  Isla,  Sorch  who  in 
later  days  was  called  Sorch  Mouth  o'  Honey 
because  of  his  sweet  songs.  Of  all  songs 
that  he  sang  none  was  so  sweet  against  the 
ears  as  that  of  the  love  of  Eilidh  and 
Isla.  Two  lovers  these  that  loved  as  few 
love;  and  deathless,  too,  because  of  that 
great  love. 

And  what  Sorch  saw  was  this.  Just  before 
the  rising  of  the  sun,  Isla  and  Eilidh  came 
hand  in  hand  from  out  of  the  rath,  where  they 

123 


Silk  o'  the  Kine 

had  lain  awake  all  night  because  of  their  deep 
joy. 

Silently,  but  unhasting,  fearless  still  as  of 
yore,  they  moved  across  the  low  dunes  that 
withheld  the  sea  from  the  land. 

The  waves  were  just  frothed,  so  low  were 
they.  The  loud  glad  singing  of  them  filled 
the  morning.  Eilidh  and  Isla  stopped  when 
the  first  waves  met  their  feet.  They  cast  their 
raiment  from  them.  Eilidh  flung  the  gold  fil- 
let of  her  dusky  hair  far  into  the  sea.  Isla 
broke  his  sword,  and  saw  the  two  halves  shelve 
through  the  moving  greenness.  Then  they 
turned,  and  kissed  each  other  upon  the  lips. 

And  the  end  of  the  song  of  Sorch  is  this: 
that  neither  he  nor  any  man  knows  whether 
they  went  to  life  or  to  death ;  but  that  Isla 
and  Eilidh  swam  out  together  against  the  sun, 
and  were  seen  never  again  by  any  of  their 
kin  or  race.  Two  strong  swimmers  were 
these,  who  swam  out  together  into  the  sun- 
light :  Eilidh  and  Isla. 


124 


ULA   AND    URLA^ 

Ula  and  Urla  were  under  vow  to  meet  by 
the  Stone  of  Sorrow.  But  Ula,  dying  first, 
stumbled  blindfold  when  he  passed  the  Shad- 
owy Gate ;  and,  till  Urla's  hour  was  upon  her, 
she  remembered  not. 

These  were  the  names  that  had  been  given 
to  them  in  the  north  isles,  when  the  birlinn 
that  ran  down  the  war-galley  of  the  vikings 
brought  them  before  the  Maormor. 

No  word  had  they  spoken  that  day,  and  no 
name.  They  were  of  the  Gael,  though  Ula's 
hair  was  yellow,  and  though  his  eyes  were 
blue  as  the  heart  of  a  wave.  They  would  ask 
nothing,  for  both  were  in  love  with  death. 
The  Maormor  of  Siol  Tormaid  looked  at  Urla, 
and  his  desire  gnawed  at  his  heart.  But  he 
knew  what  was  in  her  mind,  because  he  saw 
into  it  through  her  eyes,  and  he  feared  the 
sudden  slaying  in  the  dark. 

» The  first  part  of  the  story  of  Ula  and  Urla,  as  Isla 
and  Eilidh,  is  told  in  "Silk  o'  the  Kine."  [The  name 
Eilidh,  is  pronounced  Eily  {liq.)  or  Isle-ih.] 

125 


Ula  and  Urla 

Nevertheless,  he  brooded  night  and  day 
upon  her  beauty.  Her  skin  was  more  white 
than  the  foam  of  the  moon :  her  eyes  were 
as  a  star-Ut  dewy  dusk.  When  she  moved,  he 
saw  her  Hke  a  doe  in  the  fern :  when  she 
stooped,  it  was  as  the  fall  of  wind-swayed 
water.  In  his  eyes  there  was  a  shimmer  as 
of  the  sun-flood  in  a  calm  sea.  In  that  daz- 
zle he  was  led  astray. 

"  Go,"  he  said  to  Ula,  on  a  day  of  the  days. 
"  Go :  the  men  of  Siol  Torquil  will  take  you 
to  the  south  isles,  and  so  you  can  hale  to  your 
own  place,  be  it  Eireann  or  Manannan,  or 
wherever  the  south  wind  puts  its  hand  upon 
your  home." 

It  was  on  that  day  Ula  spoke  for  the  first 
time. 

"  I  will  go.  Coll  mac  Torcall ;  but  I  go  not 
alone.     Urla  that  I  love  goes  whither  I  go." 

"  She  is  my  spoil.  But,  man  out  of  Eireann 
— for  so  I  know  you  to  be,  because  of  the 
manner  of  your  speech — tell  me  this :  Of 
what  clan  and  what  place  are  you,  and 
whence  is  Urla  come ;  and  by  what  shore  was 
it  that  the  men  of  Lochlin  whom  we  slew  took 
you  and  her  out  of  the  sea,  as  you  swam 
against  the  sun,  with  waving  swords  upon  the 
strand  when  the  viking-boat  carried  you 
away  r 

126 


Ula  and  Urla 

"  How  know  you  these  things?  "  asked  Ula, 
that  had  been  Isla,  son  of  the  king  of  Islay. 

"  One  of  the  sea-rovers  spake  before  he 
died." 

"  Then  let  the  viking  speak  again,  I  have 
nought  to  say." 

With  that  the  Maormor  frowned,  but  said 
no  more.  That  eve  Ula  was  seized,  as  he 
walked  in  the  dusk  by  the  sea,  singing  low  to 
himself  an  ancient  song. 

"  Is  it  death  ?  "  he  said,  remembering  an- 
other day  when  he  and  Eilidh,  that  they 
called  Urla,  had  the  same  asking  upon  their 
lips. 

"  It  is  death." 

Ula  frowned,  but  spake  no  word  for  a 
time.     Then  he  spake. 

"  Let  me  say  one  word  with  Urla." 

"  No  word  canst  thou  have.  She,  too,  must 
die." 

Ula  laughed  low  at  that. 

"  I  am  ready,"  he  said.  And  they  slew  him 
with  a  spear. 

When  they  told  Urla,  she  rose  from  the 
deerskins  and  went  down  to  the  shore.  She 
said  no  word  then.  But  she  stooped,  and  she 
put  her  lips  upon  his  cold  lips,  and  she  whis- 
pered in  his  unhearing  ear. 

That  night  Coll  mac  Torcall  went  secretly 

127 


Ula  and  Urla 

to  where  Urla  was.  When  he  entered,  a 
groan  came  to  his  lips  and  there  was  froth 
there :  and  that  was  because  the  spear  that 
had  slain  Ula  was  thrust  betwixt  his  shoul- 
ders by  one  who  stood  in  the  shadow.  He  lay- 
there  till  the  dawn.  When  they  found  Coll 
the  Maormor  he  was  like  a  seal  speared  upon 
a  rock,  for  he  had  his  hands  out,  and  his  head 
was  between  them,  and  his  face  was  down- 
ward. 

"  Eat  dust,  slain  wolf,"  was  all  that  Eilidh, 
whom  they  called  Urla,  said,  ere  she  moved 
away  from  that  place  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night. 

When  the  sun  rose,  Urla  was  in  a  glen 
among  the  hills.  A  man  who  shepherded 
there  took  her  to  his  mate.  They  gave  her 
milk,  and  because  of  her  beauty  and  the  fro- 
zen silence  of  her  eyes,  bade  her  stay  with 
them  and  be  at  peace. 

They  knew  in  time  that  she  wished  death. 
But  first,  there  was  the  birthing  of  the 
child. 

"  It  was  Isla's  will,"  she  said  to  the  woman. 
Ula  was  but  the  shadow  of  a  bird's  wing:  an 
idle  name.  And  she,  too,  was  Eilidh  once 
more. 

"  It  was  death  he  gave  you  when  he  gave 
you  the  child,"  said  the  woman  once. 

128 


Ula  and  Urla 

"  It  was  life,"  answered  Eilidh,  with  her 
eyes  filled  with  the  shadow  of  dream.  And 
yet  another  day  the  woman  said  to  her  that  it 
would  be  well  to  bear  the  child  and  let  it  die : 
for  beauty  was  like  sunlight  on  a  day  of 
clouds,  and  if  she  were  to  go  forth  young  and 
alone  and  so  wondrous  fair,  she  would  have 
love,  and  love  is  best. 

"  Truly,  love  is  best,"  Eilidh  answered. 
"  And  because  Isla  loved  me,  I  would  that  an- 
other Isia  came  into  the  world  and  sang  his 
songs — the  songs  that  were  so  sweet,  and  the 
songs  that  he  never  sang,  because  I  gave  him 
death  when  I  gave  him  life.  But  now  he  shall 
live  again,  and  he  and  I  shall  be  in  one  body, 
in  him  that  I  carry  now." 

At  that  the  woman  understood,  and  said  no 
more.  And  so  the  days  grew  out  of  the  nights, 
and  the  dust  of  the  feet  of  one  month  was  in 
the  eyes  of  that  which  followed  after;  and 
this  until  Eilidh's  time  was  come. 

Dusk  after  dusk,  Ula  that  was  Isla  the 
Singer,  waited  by  the  Stone  of  Sorrow. 
Then  a  great  weariness  came  upon  him.  He 
made  a  song  there,  where  he  lay  in  the  nar- 
row place ;  the  last  song  that  he  made, 
for  after  that  he  heard  no  trampling  of  the 
hours. 

129 


Ula  and  Urla 

The  swift  years  slip  and  slide  adown  the  steep; 

The  slow  years  pass ;  neither  will  come  again. 
Yon  huddled  years  have  weary  eyes  that  weep, 

These  laugh,  these  moan,  these  silent  frown,  these 
plain, 

These  have  their  lips  acurl  with  proud  disdain. 

0  years  with  tears,  and  tears  through  weary  years. 
How  weary  I  who  in  your  arms  have  lain: 

Now,  I  am  tired :  the  sound  of  slipping  spears 
Moves  soft,  and  tears  fall  in  a  bloody  rain, 
And  the  chill  footless  years  go  over  me  who  am 
slain. 

1  hear,  as  in  a  wood,  dim  with  old  light,  the  rain, 

Slow  falling;  old,  old,  weary,  human  tears: 
And  in  the  deepening  dark  my  comfort  is  my  Pain, 
Sole  comfort  left  of  all  my  hopes  and  fears, 
Pain   that   alone   survives,   gaunt   hound  of  the 
shadowy  years. 

But,  at  the  last,  after  many  days,  he  stirred. 
There  was  a  song  in  his  ears. 

He  listened.  It  was  like  soft  rain  in  a  wood 
in  June.  It  was  like  the  wind  laughing  among 
the  leaves. 

Then  his  heart  leaped.  Sure,  it  was  the 
voice  of  Eilidh ! 

"Eilidh!  Eilidh!  Eilidh .'"  he  cried.  But 
a  great  weariness  came  upon  him  again.  He 
fell  asleep,  knowing  not  the  little  hand  that 
was  in  his,  and  the  small,  flower-sweet  body 
that  was  warm  against  his  side. 

130 


Ula  and  Urla 

Then  the  child  that  was  his  looked  into  the 
singer's  heart,  and  saw  there  a  mist  of  rain- 
bows, and  midway  in  that  mist  was  the  face 
of  Eilidh,  his  mother. 

Thereafter,  the  little  one  looked  into  his 
brain  that  was  so  still,  and  he  saw  the  music 
that  was  there :  and  it  was  the  voice  of  Eilidh 
his  mother. 

And,  again,  the  birdeen,  that  had  the  blue 
of  Isla's  eyes  and  the  dream  of  Eilidh's, 
looked  into  Ula's  sleeping  soul:  and  he  saw 
that  it  was  not  Isla  nor  yet  Eilidh,  but  that  it 
was  like  unto  himself,  who  was  made  of 
Eilidh  and  Isla. 

For  a  long  time  the  child  dreamed.  Then 
he  put  his  ear  to  Isla's  brow,  and  listened. 
Ah,  the  sweet  songs  that  he  heard.  Ah,  bit- 
ter-sweet moonseed  of  song !  Into  his  life  they 
passed,  echo  after  echo,  strain  after  strain, 
wild  air  after  wild  sweet  air. 

"  Isla  shall  never  die,"  whispered  the  child, 
"  for  Eilidh  loved  him.  And  I  am  Isla  and 
Eilidh." 

Then  the  little  one  put  his  hands  above 
Isla's  heart.  There  was  a  flame  there,  that 
the  Grave  quenched  not. 

"  O  flame  of  love !  "  sighed  the  child,  and 
he  clasped  it  to  his  breast :  and  it  was  a  moon- 
shine glory  about  the  two  hearts  that  he  had, 

131 


Ula  and  Urla 

the  heart  of  Isla  and  the  heart  of  Eihdh,  that 
were  thenceforth  one. 

At  dawn  he  was  no  longer  there.  Al- 
ready the  sunrise  was  warm  upon  him 
where  he  lay,  new-born,  upon  the  breast  of 
Eilidh. 

"  It  is  the  end,"  murmured  Isla  when  he 
waked.  "  She  has  never  come.  For  sure, 
now,  the  darkness  and  the  silence." 

Then  he  remembered  the  words  of  Maol 
the  Druid,  he  that  was  a  seer,  and  had  told 
him  of  Orchil,  the  dim  goddess  who  is  under 
the  brown  earth,  in  a  vast  cavern,  where  she 
weaves  at  two  looms.  With  one  hand  she 
weaves  life  upward  through  the  grass;  with 
the  other  she  weaves  death  downward  through 
the  mould;  and  the  sound  of  the  weaving  is 
Eternity,  and  the  name  of  it  in  the  green  world 
is  Time.  And,  through  all.  Orchil  weaves 
the  weft  of  Eternal  Beauty,  that  passeth  not, 
though  its  soul  is  Change. 

And  these  were  the  words  of  Orchil,  on 
the  lips  of  Maol  the  Druid,  that  was  old,  and 
knew  the  mystery  of  the  Grave. 

When  thou  journeyest  toward  the  Shad- 
ozvy  Gate  take  neither  Fear  with  thee  nor 
Hope,  for  both  are  abashed  hounds  of  silence 
in  that  place;  but  take  only  the  purple  night- 

132 


Ula  and  Urla 

shade  for  sleep,  and  a  vial  of  tears  and  wine, 
tears  that  shall  he  known  unto  thee  and  old 
wine  of  love.  So  shalt  thou  have  thy  silent 
festival,  ere  the  end. 

So  therewith  Isla,  having,  in  his  weariness, 
the  nightshade  of  sleep,  and  in  his  mind  the 
slow  dripping  rain  of  familiar  tears,  and  deep 
in  his  heart  the  old  wine  of  love,  bowed  his 
head. 

It  was  well  to  have  lived,  since  life  was 
Eilidh.  It  was  well  to  cease  to  live,  since 
Eilidh  came  no  more. 

Then  suddenly  he  raised  his  head.  There 
was  music  in  the  green  world  above.  A  sun- 
ray  opened  the  earth  about  him:  staring  up- 
ward he  beheld  Angus  Og. 

"Ah,  fair  face  of  the  god  of  youth,"  he 
sighed.  Then  he  saw  the  white  birds  that  fly 
about  the  head  of  Angus  Og,  and  he  heard  the 
music  that  his  breath  made  upon  the  harp  of 
the  wind. 

"  Arise,"  said  Angus ;  and,  when  he  smiled, 
the  white  birds  flashed  their  wings  and  made 
a  mist  of  rainbows. 

"  Arise,"  said  Angus  Og  again,  and,  when 
he  spoke,  the  spires  of  the  grass  quivered  to  a 
wild,  sweet  haunting  air. 

So  Isla  arose,  and  the  sun  shone  upon  him, 

133 


Ula  and  Urla 

and  his  shadow  passed  into  the  earth.  Orchil 
wove  into  it  her  web  of  death. 

"  Why  dost  thou  wait  here  by  the  Stone  of 
Sorrow,  Isla  that  was  called  Ula  at  the  end  ?  " 

"  I  wait  for  Eilidh,  who  cometh  not." 

At  that  the  wind-listening  god  stooped  and 
laid  his  head  upon  the  grass. 

"  I  hear  the  coming  of  a  woman's  feet,"  he 
said,  and  he  rose. 

'  Eilidh !  Eilidh !  "  cried  Isla,  and  the  sor- 
row of  his  cry  was  a  moan  in  the  web  of  Or- 
chil. 

Angus  Og  took  a  branch,  and  put  the  cool 
greenness  against  his  cheek. 

"  I  hear  the  beating  of  a  heart,"  he  said. 

"  Eilidh  !  Eihdh  !  Eihdh  !  "  Isla  cried,  and 
the  tears  that  were  in  his  voice  were  turned 
by  Angus  into  dim  dews  of  remembrance  in 
the  babe-brain  that  was  the  brain  of  Isla  and 
Eilidh. 

"  I  hear  a  word,"  said  Angus  Og,  "  and  that 
word  is  a  flame  of  joy." 

Isla  listened.  He  heard  a  singing  of  birds. 
Then,  suddenly,  a  glory  came  into  the  shine 
of  the  sun. 

"/  have  come,  Isla  my  king! " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Eilidh.  He  bowed  his 
head,  and  swayed;  for  it  was  his  own  life 
that  came  to  him. 

134 


Ula  and  Urla 

"  Eilidh!"  he  whispered. 
And  so,  at  the  last,  Isla  came  into  his  king- 
dom. 

But  are  they  gone,  these  twain,  who  loved 
with  deathless  love  ?  Or  is  this  a  dream  that 
I  have  dreamed? 

Afar  in  an  island-sanctuary  that  I  shall  not 
see  again,  where  the  wind  chants  the  blind 
oblivious  rune  of  Time,  I  have  heard  the 
grasses  whisper :  Time  never  was,  Time  is 
not. 


135 


THE  WASHER  OF  THE 
FORD: 

AND    OTHER   LEGENDARY 
MORALITIES 


''It  is  Loveliness  I  seek,  not  lovely  things." 


TO 

€.  A.  J. 


PROLOGUE 


"/  firid  under  the  houghs  of  love  mtd  hate 
Eternal  Beauty  wandering  on  her  way." 

{"The  Rose  upon  the  Rood  of  Time.") 


Prologue 


(To  Kathia) 

To  you,  in  your  far-away  home  in  Prov- 
ence, I  send  these  tales  out  of  the  remote 
North  you  love  so  well,  and  so  well  understand. 
The  same  blood  is  in  our  veins,  a  deep  cur- 
rent somewhere  beneath  the  tide  that  sus- 
tains us.  We  have  meeting-places  that  none 
knows  of;  we  understand  what  few  can  un- 
derstand ;  and  we  share  in  common  a  strange 
and  inexplicable  heritage.  It  is  because  you, 
who  are  called  Kathia  of  the  Sunway,  are 
also  Kathia  nan  Ciar,  Kathia  of  the  Shadow, 
it  is  because  you  are  what  you  are  that  I  in- 
scribe this  book  to  you.  In  it  you  will  find 
much  that  is  familiar  to  you;  for  there  is  a 
reality,  beneath  the  mere  accident  of  novelty, 
which  may  be  recognised  in  a  moment  as  na- 
tive to  the  secret  life,  that  lives  behind  the 
brain  and  the  wise  nerves  with  their  dim  an- 
cestral knowledge. 

The  greater  portion  of  this  book  deals  with 
the   remote   life   of   a  remote  past.    As   for 

143 


Prologue 

"The  Last  Supper"  and  "The  Fisher  of 
Men,"  they  are  of  no  time  or  date,  for  they 
are  founded  upon  elemental  facts  which  are 
modified  but  not  transformed  by  the  changing 
years. 

It  may  be  the  last  of  its  kind  I  shall  write 
— at  any  rate,  for  a  time.  I  would  like  it  to 
be  associated  with  you,  to  whom  not  only  the 
mystery  but  the  pagan  sentiment  and  the  old 
barbaric  emotion  are  so  near.  With  the  sec- 
ond sight  of  the  imagination  we  can  often 
see  more  clearly  in  the  dim  subsided  waters 
than  through  the  foam  and  spray  of  the  pres- 
ent; and  most  clearly  when  we  recognise  that, 
amid  the  ebb  and  flow  of  time  and  circum- 
stance, the  present  is  but  a  surface-eddy  of 
that  past  to  which  we  belong.  In  the  strange 
arrogance  of  our  passing  hour  we  are  as  ships 
swinging  happily  content  to  anchors  which 
are  linked  to  us  by  ropes  of  sand. 

If  I  am  eager  to  have  my  say  on  other  as- 
pects of  our  Celtic  life  in  the  remoter  West 
Highlands  and  in  the  Isles:  now  with  the 
idyllic,  now  with  the  tragic,  now  with  the 
grotesque,  the  humorous,  the  pathetic,  with 
all  the  medley  cast  from  the  looms  of  Life — 
all  that 

"...  from  the  looms  of  Life  are  spun, 

Warp  of  shadow  and  woof  of  sun " 

144 


Prologue 

and  if,  too,  I  long  to  express  anew  something 
of  that  wonderful  historic  romance  in  which 
we  of  our  race  and  country  are  so  rich,  I  am 
not  likely  to  forget  those  earlier  dreams 
which  are  no  whit  less  realities — realities  of 
the  present  seen  through  an  inverted  glass — 
which  have  been,  and  are,  so  full  of  inspira- 
tion and  of  a  strange  and  terrible  beauty. 

But  one  to  whom  life  appeals  by  a  myriad 
avenues,  all  alluring  and  full  of  wonder  and 
mystery,  cannot  always  abide  where  the  heart 
longs  most  to  be.  It  is  well  to  remember 
that  there  are  Shadowy  Waters  even  in  the 
cities,  and  that  the  Fount  of  Youth  is  discov- 
erable in  the  dreariest  towns  as  well  as  in 
Hy  Brasil:  a  truth  apt  to  be  forgotten  by 
those  of  us  who  dwell  with  ever-wondering 
delight  in  that  land  of  lost  romance  which  had 
its  own  way,  as  this  epoch  of  a  still  stranger, 
if  a  less  obvious,  romance  has  its  own  passing 
hour. 

The  titular  piece — with  its  strange  name 
that  will  not  be  unfamiliar  to  you  who  know 
our  ancient  Celtic  literature,  or  may  bear  in 
mind  the  striking  image  wrought  out  of  the 
old  local  legend,  by  the  author  of  the  .Irish 
epic,  Congal — gives  the  keynote,  not  only  of 
this  book,  but  of  what  has  been  for  hundreds 
of  years,  and  to  some  extent  still  is,  the  char- 

145 


Prologue 

acteristic  of  the  purely  Celtic  mind  in  the 
Highlands  and  the  Isles.  This  characteristic 
is  a  strange  complexity  of  paganism  and 
Christianity,  or  rather  an  apparent  complexity 
arising  from  the  grafting  of  Christianity  upon 
paganism.  Columba,  St  Patrick,  St  Ronan, 
Kentigern,  all  these  militant  Christian  saints 
were  merely  transformed  pagans.  Even  in 
the  famous  dialogue  between  St  Patrick  and 
Oisin,  which  is  the  folk-telling  of  the  passing 
of  the  old  before  the  new,  the  thrill  of  a 
pagan  sympathy  on  the  part  of  the  uncom- 
promising saint  is  unmistakable.  To  this  day 
there  are  Christian  rites  and  superstitions 
which  are  merely  a  gloss  upon  a  surviving 
antique  paganism.  I  have  known  an  old 
woman,  in  nowise  different  from  her  neigh- 
bours, who  on  the  day  of  Beltane  sacrificed  a 
hen :  though  for  her  propitiatory  rite  she  had 
no  warrant  save  that  of  vague  traditionary 
lore,  the  lore  of  the  tcinntean,  of  the  hearth- 
side — where,  in  truth,  are  best  to  be  heard  the 
last  echoes  of  the  dim  mythologic  faith  of  our 
ancestors.  What  is  the  familiar  "  clachan," 
now  meaning  a  hamlet  with  a  kirk,  but  an 
J  echo  of  the  "  Stones,"  the  circles  of  the 
■  Druids — or  of  a  more  ancient  worship  still, 
that  perhaps  of  the  mysterious  Anait,  whose 
sole  record  is  a  clach  on  a  lonely  moor,  of 

146 


Prologue 

which  from  time  immemorial  the  people  have 
spoken  as  the  "  Teampull  na'n  Anait  "  ?  A 
relative  of  mine  saw,  in  South  Uist,  less  than 
twenty-five  years  ago,  what  may  have  been 
the  last  sun-sacrifice  in  Scotland,  when  an  old 
Gael  secretly  and  furtively  slew  a  lamb  on 
the  summit  of  a  conical  grassy  knoll  at  sun- 
rise. Those  who  have  the  Gaelic  have  their 
ears  filled  with  rumours  of  a  day  that  is  gone. 
When  an  evicted  crofter  laments,  O  mo 
chreach,  mo  chrcach!'^  or  some  poor  soul  on 
a  bed  of  pain  cries,  O  mo  chradhshlat!  ^  he 
who  knows  the  past  recognises  in  the  one  the 
mournful  refrain  of  the  time  when  the  sea- 
pirates  or  the  hill-robbers  pillaged  and  devas- 
tated quiet  homesteads;  and,  in  the  other,  not 
the  moan  of  suffering  only,  but  the  cry  of  tor- 
ment from  the  victim  racked  on  the  "  cradh- 
shlat,"  a  bitter  ignominious  torture  used  by 
the  ancient  Gaels.  When,  in  good  fellowship 
one  man  says  to  another,  Tha,  a  laochain  (yes, 
my  dear  fellow),  he  recalls  Fionn  and  the 
chivalry  of  eld;  for  laochain  is  merely  a 
contraction  for  laoch-Fhinn,  meaning  a  com- 
panion in  war,  a  hero,  literally  Fionn's  right- 
hand  man  in  battle.     To  this  day,  women,  ac- 

i"0,  alas,  alas!"     Literally,    "O,  my  undoing," 
or  "O,  my  utter  ruin." 
*  "Alas,  my  torment!" 

147 


Prologue 

companying  a  marching  regiment,  are  some- 
times heard  to  say  in  the  GaeHc,  "  We  are  go- 
ing with  the  dear  souls  to  the  wars  " — Hterally 
an  echo  of  the  Ossianic  Siubhlaidh  sinn  le'n 
anaiii  do'n  araich,  "  We  shall  accompany  their 
souls  to  the  battle-field."  A  thousand  instances 
could  be  adduced.  The  language  is  a  her- 
ring-net through  which  the  unchanging  sea 
filtrates  even  though  the  net  be  clogged  with 
the  fish  of  the  hour.  Nor  is  it  the  pagan  at- 
mosphere only  that  survives :  often  we  breathe 
the  air  of  that  early  day  when  the  mind  of 
man  w'as  attuned  to  a  beautiful  piety  which 
was  wrought  into  nature  itself.  Of  the  sev- 
eral words  for  the  dawn,  there  is  a  beautiful 
one,  Uinneagachadh.  W^e  have  it  in  the 
phrase,  'nuair  a  hha  an  latha  ag  uinneaga- 
chadh, "  when  the  day  began  to  dawm."  Now 
this  word  is  simply  an  extension  of  Uinncag, 
a  wdndow,  and  the  application  of  the  image 
dates  far  back  to  the  days  of  St  Columba, 
when  some  devout  and  poetic  soul  spoke  of 
the  uinncagan  Ncimh,  the  windows  of  Heaven. 
Sometimes,  among  the  innumerable  legend- 
ary moralities  which  exist  fragmentarily  in 
the  West  Highlands  and  in  the  Isles,  there  is 
a  coherent  narrative  basis — as,  for  example, 
in  the  Irish  and  Highland  folk-lore  about  St 
Bride,  or  Brigit,  "  Muime  Chriosd."     Some- 

148 


Prologue 

times  there  is  simply  a  phrase  survived  out 
of  antiquity.  I  doubt  if  any  now  living,  either 
in  the  Hebrides  or  in  Ireland,  has  heard  even 
a  fragmentary  legend  of  the  Washer  of  the 
Ford.  The  name  survives,  with  its  atmos- 
phere of  a  remote  past,  its  dim  ancestral 
memory  of  a  shadowy  figure  of  awe  haunting 
a  shadowy  stream  in  a  shadowy  land.  Sir 
Samuel  Ferguson,  in  Congal,  has  done  little 
more  than  limn  an  obscure  shadow  of 
that  shadow;  yet  it  haunts  the  imagination. 
In  the  passage  of  paganism,  these  old  myths 
were  too  deep-rooted  in  the  Celtic  mind  to 
vanish  at  the*  bidding  of  the  Cross :  thus  came 
about  that  strange  grafting  of  the  symbolic 
imagery  of  the  devout  Culdee,  of  the  visionary 
Mariolater,  upon  the  surviving  Druidic  and 
pre-historic  imagination.  In  a  word,  the 
Washer  of  the  Ford  might  well  have  ap- 
peared, to  a  single  generation,  now  as  a  ter- 
rible and  sombre  pagan  goddess  of  death, 
now  as  a  symbolic  figure  in  the  new  faith, 
foreshadowing  spiritual  salvation  and  the 
mystery  of  resurrection. 

If,  in  a  composition  such  as  "  Cathal-of-the- 
Woods,"  there  is  the  expression  of  revolt — 
not  ancient  only,  nor  of  the  hour,  but  eternal, 
for  the  revolt  is  of  the  sovereign  nature  with- 
in us  whereon  all  else  is  an  accidental  super- 

149 


Prologue 

structure — against  the  Christian  ethic  of  re- 
nunciation, with  a  concurrent  echo  of  our  deep 
primeval  longing  for  earth-kinship  with  every 
life  in  Nature :  if  here  there  is  the  breath  of 
a  day  that  may  not  come  again,  there  is  little 
or  nothing  of  the  past,  save  what  is  merely 
accidental,  in  "  The  Fisher  of  Men  "  or  "  The 
Last  Supper."  I  like  to  think  that  these  each- 
daircachd  spioradail,  these  spiritual  chronicles, 
might  as  well,  in  substance,  have  been  told  a 
thousand  years  ago  or  be  written  a  thousand 
years  hence.  That  Fisher  still  haunts  the  in- 
visible shadowy  stream  of  human  tears ;  those 
mystic  Spinners  still  ply  their  triple  shuttles, 
and  the  fair  Weaver  of  Hope  now  as  of  yore 
and  for  ever  sends  his  rainbows  adrift  across 
the  hearts  and  through  the  minds  of  men. 
What  does  it  matter,  again,  that  the  Three 
Marvels  of  Hy  are  set  against  the  background 
of  the  lona  of  St  Columba?  St  Francis 
blessed  the  birds  of  Assisi,  and  San  Antonio 
had  a  heart  as  tender  for  all  winged  and 
gentle  creatures ;  and  there  are  innumerable 
quiet  gardens  of  peace  in  the  world  even  now, 
where  the  kindred  of  San  Antonio  and  St 
Francis  and  St  Columba  are  kith  to  our  fel- 
low-beings, knowing  them  akin  one  and  all  to 
the  seals  whom  St  Molios  blessed  at  the  end 
of  his  days,  and  in  his  new  humbleness  hailed 

150 


Prologue 

as  likewise  of  the  company  of  the  sons  of 
God. 

But  of  this  I  am  sure.  If  there  be  spirit- 
ual truth  in  the  vision  of  the  Blind  Harper 
who  saw  the  Washer  of  the  Ford,  or  in  that 
of  Molios  who  hailed  the  seals  as  brethren, 
or  in  that  of  Colum,  who  blessed  the  birds  and 
the  fish  of  the  sea,  and  even  the  vagrant  flies 
of  the  air,  and  saw  the  Moon-Child,  and  in 
that  seeing  learned  the  last  mystery  of  the 
life  of  the  soul;  if  in  these,  as  in  the  "  Fisher 
of  Men  "  and  "  The  Last  Supper,"  I  have  given 
faint  utterance  to  the  heart-knowledge  we 
all  have,  I  would  not  have  you  or  any  think 
that  the  pagan  way  is  therefore  to  me  as  the 
way  of  darkness.  The  lost  monk  who  loved 
the  Annir-Choille  was  doubtless  not  the  less 
able  to  see  the  Uinneagan  Neimh  because  he 
was  under  ban  of  Colum  and  all  his  kin ;  and 
there  are  those  of  us  who  would  rather  be 
with  Cathal  of  the  Woods,  and  be  drunken 
with  green  fire,  than  gain  the  paradise  of  the 
holy  Molios  who  banned  him,  if  in  that  gain 
were  involved  the  forfeiture  of  the  sunny 
green  world,  the  joy  of  life,  and  the  earth- 
sweet  ancient  song  of  the  blood  that  is  in  the 
veins  of  youth. 

These  tales,  let  me  add,  are  not  legendary 
mysteries  but  legendary  moralities.     They  are 

151 


Prologue 

reflections  from  the  mirror  that  is  often  ob- 
scured but  is  never  dimmed.  There  is  no 
mystery  in  them,  or  anywhere ;  except  the 
eternal  mystery  of  beauty. 

Of  the  section  called  Seanachas,  the  short 
barbaric  tales,  I  will  say  nothing  to  you,  whose 
favourite  echo  from  Shelley  is  that  thrilling 
line — "  The  tempestuous  loveliness  of  terror." 

You  in  your  far  Provence,  amid  the  austere 
hills  that  guard  an  ancient  land  of  olive  and 
vine,  a  land  illumined  by  the  blue  flowing 
light  of  the  Rhone,  and  girt  by  desert  places 
where  sun  and  wind  inhabit,  and  scarce  any 
other — you  there  and  I  here  liave  this  in  com- 
mon. Everywhere  we  see  the  life  of  Man  in 
subservient  union  with  the  life  of  Nature; 
never,  in  a  word,  as  a  sun  beset  by  tributary 
stars,  but  as  one  planet  among  the  innumerous 
concourse  of  the  sky,  nurtured,  it  may  be,  by 
light  from  other  luminaries  and  other  spheres 
than  we  know  of.  That  we  are  intimately  at 
one  with  Nature  is  a  cosmic  truth  we  are  all 
slowly  approaching.  It  is  not  only  the  dog, 
it  is  not  only  the  wild  beast  and  the  wood- 
dove,  that  are  our  close  kindred,  but  the  green 
tree  and  the  green  grass,  the  blue  wave  and 
the  flowing  wind,  the  flower  of  a  day  and  the 
granite  peak  of  an  aeon.  And  I  for  one  would 
rather  have  the  wind  for  comrade,  and  the 

152 


Prologue 

white  stars  and  green  leaves  as  my  kith  and 
kin,  than  many  a  human  companion,  whose 
chief  claim  is  the  red  blood  that  differs  little 
from  the  sap  in  the  grass  or  in  the  pines,  and 
whose  "  deathless  soul  "  is,  mayhap,  no  more 
than  a  fugitive  light  blown  idly  for  an  hour 
betwixt  dawn  and  dark.  We  are  woven  in 
one  loom,  and  the  Weaver  thrids  our  being 
with  the  sweet  influences,  not  only  of  the 
Pleiades,  but  of  the  living  world  of  which  each 
is  no  more  than  a  multi-coloured  thread :  as, 
in  turn.  He  thrids  the  wandering  wind  with 
the  inarticulate  cry,  the  yearning,  the  passion, 
the  pain,  of  that  bitter  clan,  the  Human. 

Truly,  we  are  all  one.  It  is  a  common 
tongue  we  speak,  though  the  wave  has  its  own 
whisper,  and  the  wind  its  own  sigh,  and  the 
lip  of  man  its  word,  and  the  heart  of  woman 
its  silence. 

Long,  long  ago  a  desert  king,  old  and  blind, 
but  dowered  with  ancestral  wisdom  beyond 
all  men  that  have  lived,  heard  that  the  Son  of 
God  was  born  among  men.  He  rose  from 
his  place,  and  on  the  eve  of  the  third  day  he 
came  to  where  Jesus  sat  among  the  gifts 
brought  by  the  wise  men  of  the  East.  The 
little  lad  sat  in  Mary's  lap,  beneath  a  tree 
filled  with  quiet  light;  and  while  the  folk  of 

153 


Prologue 

Bethlehem  came  and  went  He  was  only  a  child 
as  other  children  are.  But  when  the  desert 
king  drew  near,  the  child's  eyes  deepened  with 
knowledge. 

"  What  is  it,  my  little  son  ?  "  said  Mary  the 
Virgin. 

"  Sure,  Mother  dear,"  said  Jesus,  who  had 
never  yet  spoken  a  word,  "  it  is  Deep  Knowl- 
edge that  is  coming  to  me." 

"  And  what  will  that  be,  O  my  Wonder  and 
Glory  ?  " 

"  That  which  will  come  in  at  the  door  be- 
fore you  speak  to  me  again." 

Even  as  the  child  spoke,  an  old  blind  man 
entered,  and  bowed  his  head. 

"  Come  near,  O  tired  old  man,"  said  Mary 
that  had  borne  a  son  to  Joseph,  but  whose 
womb  knew  him  not. 

With  that  the  tears  fell  into  the  old  man's 
beard.  "  Sorrow  of  sorrows,"  he  said,  "  but 
that  will  be  the  voice  of  the  Queen  of 
Heaven !  " 

But  Jesus  said  to  his  mother :  "  Take  up 
the  tears,  and  throw  them  into  the  dark 
night."  And  Mary  did  so :  and  lo !  upon  the 
wilderness,  where  no  light  was,  and  on  the 
dark  wave,  where  seamen  toiled  without  hope, 
clusters  of  shining  stars  rayed  downward  in  a 
white  peace. 

154 


Prologue 

Thereupon  the  old  king  of  the  desert  said: 
"  Heal  me,  O  King  of  the  Elements." 
And  Jesus  healed  him.     His  sight  was  upon 

him  again,  and  his  grey  ancientness  was  green 

youth  once  more. 

"  I  have  come  with  Deep  Knowledge,"  he 

said. 

"  Ay,   sure,  I  am   for  knowing  that,"  said 

the  King  of  the   Elements,  that   was   a  little 

child. 

"  Well,  if  you   will   be  knowing  that,   you 

can  tell  me  who  is  at  my  right  side  ?  " 
"  It  is  my  elder  brother  the  Wind." 
"  And  what  colour  will  the  Shadow  be  ?  " 
"  Now  blue  as  Hope,  now  green  as  Com- 
passion." 

"And  who  is  on  my  left?" 

"  The  Shadow  of  Life." 

"  And  what  colour  will  the  Shadow  be?  " 

"  That  which  is   woven  out   of  the  bowels 

of   the   earth   and   out   of   the   belly   of   the 

sea." 

"  Truly,  thou  art  the  King  of  the  Elements. 

I  am  bringing  you  a  great  gift,  I  am :  I  have 

come  with  Deep  Knowledge." 

And  with   that  the   old   blind  man,   whose 

eyes  were  now  as  stars,  and  whose  youth  was 

a    green    garland    about    him,    chanted    nine 

runes. 

155 


Prologue 

The  first  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Four 
Winds. 

The  second  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Deep 
Seas. 

The  third  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Lochs 
and  Rivers  and  the  Rains  and  the  Dews  and 
the  many  waters. 

The  fourth  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Green 
Trees  and  of  all  things  that  grow. 

The  fifth  rune  was  the  Rune  of  Man  and 
Bird  and  Beast,  and  of  everything  that  lives 
and  moves,  in  the  air,  on  the  earth,  and  in 
the  sea:  all  that  is  seen  of  man,  and  all  that 
is  unseen  of  man. 

The  sixth  rune  was  the  Rime  of  Birth,  from 
the  spawn  on  the  wave  to  the  Passion  of 
Woman. 

The  seventh  rune  was  the  Rune  of  Death, 
from  the  quenching  of  a  gnat  to  the  fading  of 
the  stars. 

The  eighth  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Soul 
that  dieth  not,  and  the  Spirit  that  is. 

The  ninth  rune  was  the  Rune  of  the  Mud 
and  the  Dross  and  the  Slime  of  Evil — ^that  is 
the  Garden  of  God,  wherein  He  walks  with 
sunlight  streaming  from  the  palms  of  His 
hands  and  with  stars  springing  beneath  His 
feet. 

Then  when  he  had  done,  the  old  man  said: 

156 


Prologue 

"  I  have  brought  you  Deep  Knowledge."  But 
at  that  Jesus  the  Child  said : 

"  All  this  I  heard  on  my  way  hither." 

The  old  desert  king  bowed  his  head.  Then 
he  took  a  blade  of  grass,  and  played  upon  it. 
It  was  a  wild,  strange  air  that  he  played. 

"  losa  mac  Dhe,  tell  the  woman  what  song 
that  is,"  cried  the  desert  king. 

"  It  is  the  secret  speech  of  the  Wind  that 
is  my  Brother,"  cried  the  Child,  clapping  his 
hands  for  joy. 

"  And  what  will  this  be  ?  "  and  with  that 
the  old  man  took  a  green  leaf,  and  played  a 
lovely  whispering  song. 

"  It  is  the  secret  speech  of  the  leaves," 
cried  Jesus  the  little  lad,  laughing  low. 

And  thereafter  the  desert  king  played  upon 
a  handful  of  dust,  and  upon  a  drop  of  water, 
and  upon  a  flame  of  fire ;  and  the  Child 
laughed  for  the  knowing  and  the  joy.  Then 
he  gave  the  secret  speech  of  the  singing  bird, 
and  the  barking  fox,  and  the  howling  wolf, 
and  the  bleating  sheep :  of  all  and  every  cre- 
ated kind. 

"  O  King  of  the  Elements,"  he  said  then, 
"  for  sure  you  knew  much ;  but  now  I  have 
made  you  to  know  the  secret  things  of  the 
green  Earth  that  is  Mother  of  you  and  of 
Mary  too." 

157 


Prologue 

But  while  Jesus  pondered  that  one  mystery, 
the  old  man  was  gone:  and  when  he  got  to 
his  people,  they  put  him  alive  into  a  hollow 
of  the  earth  and  covered  him  up,  because  of 
his  shining  eyes,  and  the  green  youth  that  was 
about  him  as  a  garland. 

And  when  Christ  was  nailed  upon  the 
Cross,  Deep  Knowledge  went  back  into  the 
green  world,  and  passed  into  the  grass  and 
the  sap  in  trees,  and  the  flowing  wind,  and 
the  dust  that  swirls  and  is  gone. 

All  this  is  of  the  wisdom  of  the  long  ago, 
and  you  and  I  are  of  those  who  know  how  an- 
cient it  is,  how  remoter  far  than  when  Mary, 
at  the  bidding  of  her  little  son,  threw  up  into 
the  firmament  the  tears  of  an  old  man. 

It  is  old,  old — 

"Thousands  of  years,  thousands  of  years, 
If  all  were  told." 

Is  it  wholly  unwise,  wholly  the  fantasy  of  a 
dreamer,  to  insist,  in  this  late  day,  when  the 
dust  of  ages  and  the  mists  of  the  present  hide 
from  us  the  Beauty  of  the  World,  that  we  can 
regain  our  birthright  only  by  leaving  our 
cloud-palaces  of  the  brain,  and  becoming  con- 
sciously at  one  with  the  cosmic  life  of  which, 
merely  as  men,  we  are  no  more  than  a  per- 
petual phosphorescence  ? 

158 


LEGENDARY   MORALITIES 


159 


• tell 

Of  the  dim  wisdoms  old  and  deep. 
That  God  gives  unto  m.an  in  sleep. 
For  the  elemental  beings  go 
About  my  table  to  and  fro. 
In  flow  and  fire  and  clay  and  wind. 
They  huddle  from  man's  pondering  mind; 
Yet  he  who  treads  in  austere  ways. 
May  surely  meet  their  ancient  gaze. 
Man  ever  journeys  on  with  them 
After  the  red-rose-bordered  hem. 
Ah,  faeries,  dancing  under  the  moon, 
A  Druid  land,  a  Druid  tune!" 


1 60 


The  Washer  of  the 
Ford 

When  Torcall  the  Harper  heard  of  the 
death  of  his  friend,  Aodh-of-the-Songs,  he 
made  a  vow  to  mourn  for  him  for  three  sea- 
sons— a  green-time,  an  apple-time,  and  a  snow- 
time. 

There  was  sorrow  upon  him  because  of  that 
death.  True,  Aodh  was  not  of  his  kindred, 
but  the  singer  had  saved  the  harper's  hfe  when 
his  friend  was  fallen  in  the  Field  of  Spears. 

Torcall  was  of  the  people  of  the  north — of 
the  men  of  Lochlin.  His  song  was  of  the 
fjords  and  of  strange  gods,  of  the  sword  and 
the  war-galley,  of  the  red  blood  and  the  white 
breast,  of  Odin  and  Thor  and  Freya,  of  Bal- 
der and  the  Dream-God  that  sits  in  the  rain- 
bow, of  the  starry  North,  of  the  flames  of  pale 
blue  and  flushing  rose  that  play  around  the 
Pole,  of  sudden  death  in  battle,  and  of  Val- 
halla. 

Aodh  was  of  the  south  isles,  where  these 
shake  under  the  thunder  of  the  western  seas. 
His  clan  was  of  the  isle  that  is  now  called 

i6i 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

Barra,  and  was  then  Aoidu;  but  his  mother 
was  a  woman  out  of  a  royal  rath  in  Banba, 
as  men  of  old  called  Eire  or  Eireann.  She  was 
so  fair  that  a  man  died  of  his  desire  of  her. 
He  was  named  Ulad,  and  was  a  prince.  "  The 
Melancholy  of  Ulad  "  was  long  sung  in  his 
land  after  his  end  in  the  dark  swamp,  where 
he  heard  a  singing,  and  went  laughing  glad 
to  his  death.  Another  man  was  made  a  prince 
because  of  her.  This  was  Aodh  the  Harper, 
out  of  the  Hebrid  Isles.  He  won  the  heart 
out  of  her,  and  it  was  his  from  the  day  she 
heard  his  music  and  felt  his  eyes  flame  upon 
her.  Before  the  child  was  born,  she  said, 
"  He  shall  be  the  son  of  love.  He  shall  be 
called  Aodh.  He  shall  be  called  Aodh-of-the- 
Songs."     And  so  it  was. 

Sweet  were  his  songs.  He  loved,  and  he 
sang,  and  he  died. 

And  when  Torcall  that  was  his  friend  knew 
this  sorrow,  he  rose  and  made  his  vow,  and 
went  out  for  evermore  from  the  place  where 
he  was. 

Since  the  hour  of  the  Field  of  Spears  he 
had  been  blind.  Torcall  Dall  he  was  upon 
men's  lips  thereafter.  His  harp  had  a  moon- 
shine wind  upon  it  from  that  day,  it  was  said : 
a  beautiful  strange  harping  when  he  went 
down  through  the  glen,  or  out  upon  the  sandy 

162 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

machar  by  the  shore,  and  played  what  the 
wind  sang,  and  the  grass  whispered,  and  the 
tree  murmured,  and  the  sea  muttered  or  cried 
hollowly  in  the  dark. 

Because  there  was  no  sight  to  his  eyes, 
men  said  he  saw  and  he  heard.  What  was 
it  he  heard  and  saw  that  they  saw  not  and 
heard  not?  It  was  in  the  voice  that  sighed 
in  the  strings  of  his  harp,  so  the  saying  was. 

When  he  rose  and  went  away  from  his 
place,  the  Maormor  asked  him  if  he  went 
north,  as  the  blood  sang;  or  south,  as  the 
heart  cried;  or  west,  as  the  dead  go;  or  east, 
as  the  light  comes. 

"  I  go  east,"  answered  Torcall  Dall. 

"  And  why  so.  Blind  Harper  ?  " 

"  For  there  is  darkness  always  upon  me, 
and  I  go  where  the  light  comes." 

On  that  night  of  the  nights,  a  fair  wind 
blowing  out  of  the  west,  Torcall  the  Harper 
set  forth  in  a  galley.  It  splashed  in  the 
moonshine  as  it  was  rowed  swiftly  by  nine 
men. 

"  Sing  us  a  song,  O  Torcall  Dall !  "  they 
cried. 

"  Sing  us  a  song,  Torcall  of  Lochlin,"  said 
the  man  who  steered.  He  and  all  his  com- 
pany were  of  the  Gael :  the  Harper  only  was 
of  the  Northmen. 

163 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

"What  shall  I  sing?"  he  asked.  "Shall 
it  be  of  war  that  you  love,  or  of  women  that 
twine  you  like  silk  o'  the  kine ;  or  shall  it  be 
of  death  that  is  your  meed ;  or  of  your  dread, 
the  Spears  of  the  North  ?  " 

A  low  sullen  growl  went  from  beard  to 
beard. 

"  We  are  under  ccangal,  Blind  Harper," 
said  the  steersman,  with  downcast  eyes  be- 
cause of  his  flaming  wrath ;  "  we  are  under 
bond  to  take  you  safe  to  the  mainland,  but 
we  have  sworn  no  vow  to  sit  still  under  the 
lash  of  your  tongue.  'Twas  a  wind-fleet  ar- 
row that  sliced  the  sight  out  of  your  eyes : 
have  a  care  lest  a  sudden  sword-wind  sweep 
the  breath  out  of  your  body." 

Torcall  laughed  a  low,  quiet  laugh. 

"  Is  it  death  I  am  fearing  now — I  who  have 
washed  my  hands  in  blood,  and  had  love,  and 
known  all  that  is  given  to  man?  But  I  will 
sing  you  a  song,  I  will." 

And  with  that  he  took  his  harp,  and  struck 
the  strings : 

A  lonely  stream  there  is,  afar  in  a  lone  dim  land: 
It  hath  white  dust  for  shore  it  has,  white  bones  be- 
strew the  strand : 
The  only  thing  that  liveth  there  is  a  naked  leaping 

sword ; 
But  I,  who  a  seer  am,  have  seen  the  whirling  hand 
Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford. 
164 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

A  shadowy  shape  of  cloud  and  mist,  of  gloom  and 

night,  she  stands. 

The  Washer  of  the  Ford: 
She  laughs,  at  times,  and  strews  the  dust  through  the 

hollow  of  her  hands. 

She  counts  the  sins  of  all  men  there,  and  slays  the 

red-stained  horde — 
The  ghosts  of  all  the  sins  of  men  must  know  the 

whirling  sword 

Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford. 

She  stoops  and  laughs  when  in  the  dust  she  sees  a 

writhing  limb: 
"Go  back  into  the  ford,"  she  says,  "and  hither  and 

thither  swim; 
Then  I  shall  wash  you  white  as  snow,  and  shall  take 

you  by  the  hand. 
And  slay  you  here  in  the  silence  with  this  my  whirl- 
ing brand. 
And  trample  you  into  the  dust  of  this  white  windless 
sand"— 

This  is  the  laughing  word 
Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford 
Along  that  silent  strand. 

There  was  silence  for  a  time  after  Torcall 
Dall  sang  that  song.  The  oars  took  up  the 
moonshine  and  flung  it  hither  and  thither  hke 
loose  shining  crystals.  The  foam  at  the  prow 
curled  and  leaped. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  rowers  broke  into  a 
long,  low  chant — 

165 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

Yo,  eily-a-ho,  ayah-a-ho,  eily-ayah-a-ho, 

Singeth  the  Sword 
Eily-a-ho,  ayah-a-ho,  eily-ayah-a-hc. 

Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford! 

And  at  that  all  ceased  from  rowing.  Stand- 
ing erect,  they  lifted  up  their  oars  against  the 
stars,  and  the  wild  voices  of  them  flew  out 
upon  the  night — 

Yo,  eily-a-ho,  ayah-a-ho,  eily-ayah-a-ho, 

Singeth  the  Sword 
Eily-a-ho,  ayah-a-ho,  eily-ayah-a-ho. 

Of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford! 

Torcall  Dall  laughed.  Then  he  drew  his 
sword  from  his  side  and  plunged  it  into  the 
sea.  When  he  drew  the  blade  out  of  the  water 
and  whirled  it  on  high,  all  the  white  shining 
drops  of  it  swirled  about  his  head  like  a  sleety- 
rain. 

And  at  that  the  steersman  let  go  the  steer- 
ing-oar and  drew  his  sword,  and  clove  a  flow- 
ing wave.  But  with  the  might  of  his  blow 
the  sword  spun  him  round,  and  the  sword 
sliced  away  the  ear  of  the  man  who  had  the 
sternmost  oar.  Then  there  was  blood  in  the 
eyes  of  all  there.  The  man  staggered,  and 
felt  for  his  knife,  and  it  was  in  the  heart  of 
the  steersman. 

Then  because  these  two  men  were  leaders, 

i66 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

and  had  had  a  blood-feud,  and  because  all 
there,  save  Torcall,  were  of  one  or  the  other 
side,  swords  and  knives  sang  a  song. 

The  rowers  dropped  their  oars;  and  four 
men  fought  against  three. 

Torcall  laughed,  and  lay  back  in  his  place. 
While  out  of  the  wandering  wave  the  death 
of  each  man  clambered  into  the  hollow  of  the 
boat,  and  breathed  its  chill  upon  its  man.  Tor- 
call  the  Blind  took  his  harp.  He  sang  this 
song,  with  the  swirling  spray  against  his  face, 
and  the  smell  of  blood  in  his  nostrils,  and  the 
feet  of  him  dabbling  in  the  red  tide  that  rose 
there. 

Oh  'tis  a  good  thing  the  red  blood,  by  Odin  his  word! 
And  a  good  thing  it  is  to  hear  it  bubbling  deep. 
And  when  we  hear  the  laughter  of  the  Sword, 
Oh,  the  corbies  croak,  and  the  old  wail,  and  the 

women  weep! 
And  busy  will  she  be  there  where  she  stands, 
Washing  the  red  out  of  the  sins  of  all  this  slaying 

horde ; 
And  trampling  the  bones  of  them  into  white  powdery 

sands. 
And   laughing   low   at   the   thirst   of   her   thirsty 

sword — 

The  Washer  of  the  Ford! 

When  he  had  sung  that  song  there  was  only 
one  man  whose  pulse  still  beat,  and  he  was 
at  the  bow. 

167 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

"  A  bitter  black  curse  upon  you,  Torcall 
Dall !  "  he  groaned  out  of  the  ooze  of  blood 
that  was  in  his  mouth. 

"  And  who  will  you  be  ? "  said  the  Blind 
Harper. 

"  I  am  Fergus,  the  son  of  Art,  the  son  of 
Fergus  of  the  Two  Diins." 

"  Well,  it  is  a  song  for  your  death  I  will 
make,  Fergus  mac  Art  mhic  Fheargus :  and 
because  you  are  the  last." 

With  that  Torcall  struck  a  sob  out  of  his 
harp,  and  he  sang — 

Oh,  death  of  Fergus,  that  is  lying  in  the  boat  here 
Betwixt  the  man  of  the  red  hair  and  him  of  the 
black  beard, 
Rise  now,  and  out  of  your  cold  white  eyes  take  out 
the  fear, 
And  let  Fergus  mac  Art  mhic  Fheargus  see  his 
weird ! 
Sure,  now,  it's  a  blind  man  I  am,  but  I'm  thinking  I 
see 
The  shadow  of  you  crawling  across  the  dead: 
Soon  you  will  twine  your  arm  around  his  shaking 
knee, 
And  be  whispering  your  silence  into  his  listless 
head. 
And  that  is  why,  O  Fergus 

But  here  the  man  hurled  his  sword  into  the 
sea  and  with  a  choking  cry  fell  forward ;  and 

168 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

upon  the  White  Sands  he  was,  beneath  the 
trampling  feet  of  the  Washer  of  the  Ford. 


II 

It  was  a  fair  wind  beneath  the  stars  that 
night.  At  dawn  the  mountains  of  Skye  were 
like  turrets  of  a  great  Diin  against  the  east. 

But  Torcall  the  blind  Harper  did  not  see 
that  thing.  Sleep,  too,  was  upon  him.  He 
smiled  in  that  sleep,  for  in  his  mind  he  saw 
the  dead  men,  that  were  of  the  alien  people, 
his  foes,  draw  near  the  stream  that  was  in  a 
far  place.  The  shaking  of  them,  poor  tremu- 
lous frostbit  leaves  they  were,  thin  and  sere, 
made  the  only  breath  there  was  in  that  desert. 

At  the  ford — this  is  what  he  saw  in  his 
vision — they  fell  down  like  stricken  deer  with 
the  hounds  upon  them. 

"What  is  this  stream?"  they  cried  in  the 
thin  voice  of  rain  across  the  moors. 

"  The  River  of  Blood,"  said  a  voice. 

"  And  who  are  you  that  are  in  the  silence  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  Washer  of  the  Ford." 

And  with  that  each  red  soul  was  seized  and 
thrown  into  the  water  of  the  ford ;  and  when 
white  as  a  sheep-bone  on  the  hill,  was  taken 
in  one  hand  by  the  Washer  of  the  Ford  and 
flung  into   the   air,  where  no  wind   was  and 

169 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

where  sound  was  dead,  and  was  then  severed 
this  way  and  that,  in  four  whirHng  blows  of 
the  sword  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  world. 
Then  it  was  that  the  Washer  of  the  Ford 
trampled  upon  what  fell  to  the  ground,  till 
under  the  feet  of  her  was  only  a  white  sand, 
white  as  powder,  light  as  the  dust  of  the  yel- 
low flowers  that  grow  in  the  grass. 

It  was  at  that  Torcall  Dall  smiled  in  hie 
sleep.  He  did  not  hear  the  washing  of  the 
sea ;  no,  nor  any  idle  plashing  of  the  unoared 
boat.  Then  he  dreamed,  and  it  was  of  the 
woman  he  had  left,  seven  summer-sailings  ago 
in  Lochlin.  He  thought  her  hand  was  in  his, 
and  that  her  heart  was  against  his. 

"  Ah,  dear  beautiful  heart  of  woman,"  he 
said,  "  and  what  is  the  pain  that  has  put  a 
shadow  upon  you  ?  " 

It  was  a  sweet  voice  that  he  heard  com- 
ing out  of  sleep. 

"  Torcall,  it  is  the  weary  love  I  have." 

"  Ah,  heart  o'  me,  dear !  sure  'tis  a  bitter 
pain  I  have  had  too,  and  I  away  from  you  all 
these  years." 

"  There's  a  man's  pain,  and  there's  a  wom- 
an's pain." 

"  By  the  blood  of  Balder,  Hildyr,  I  would 
have  both  upon  me  to  take  it  off  the  dear 
heart  that  is  here." 

170 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

"  Torcall !  " 

"  Yes,  white  one." 

"  We  are  not  alone,  we  two  in  the  dark." 

And  when  she  had  said  that  thing,  Torcall 
felt  two  baby  arms  go  round  his  neck,  and 
two  leaves  of  a  wild-rose  press  cool  and  sweet 
against  his  lips. 

"Ah!  what  is  this?"  he  cried,  with  his 
heart  beating,  and  the  blood  in  his  body  sing- 
ing a  glad  song. 

A  low  voice  crooned  in  his  ear:  a  bitter- 
sweet song  it  was,  passing-sweet,  passing-bit- 
ter. 

"  Ah,  white  one,  white  one,"  he  moaned ; 
"  ah,  the  wee  fawn  o'  me !  Baby  o'  foam, 
bonnie  wee  lass,  put  your  sight  upon  me  that 
I  may  see  the  blue  eyes  that  are  mine  too  and 
Hildyr's." 

But  the  child  only  nestled  closer.  Like  a 
fledgling  in  a  great  nest  she  was.  If  God 
heard  her  song,  He  was  a  glad  God  that 
day.  The  blood  that  was  in  her  body  called 
to  the  blood  that  was  in  his  body.  He  could 
say  no  word.  The  tears  were  in  his  blind 
eyes. 

Then  Hildyr  leaned  into  the  dark,  and  took 
his  harp,  and  played  upon  it.  It  was  of  the 
fonnsheen  he  had  learned,  far,  far  away,  where 
the  isles  are. 

171 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

She  sang:  but  he  could  not  hear  what  she 
sang. 

Then  the  Httle  Hps,  that  were  hke  a  cool 
wave  upon  the  dry  sand  of  his  life,  whispered 
into  a  low  song:  and  the  wavering  of  it  was 
like  this  in  his  brain — 

Where  the  winds  gather 

The  souls  of  the  dead, 
O  Torcall,  my  father, 

My  soul  is  led! 

In  Hildyr-mead 

I  was  thrown,  I  was  sown: 
Out  of  thy  seed 

I  am  sprung,  I  am  blown! 

But  where  is  the  way 

For  Hildyr  and  me, 
By  the  hill-moss  grey 

Or  the  grey  sea? 

For  a  river  is  here. 

And  a  whirling  Sword — 
And  a  Woman  washing 

By  a  Ford! 

With  that,  Torcall  Dall  gave  a  wild  cry, 
and  sheathed  an  arm  about  the  wee  white  one, 
and  put  out  a  hand  to  the  bosom  that  loved 
him.  But  there  was  no  white  breast  there, 
and  no  white  babe:  and  what  was  against  his 
lips  was  his  own  hand  red  with  blood. 

172 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

"O  Hildyr!"he  cried. 

But  only  the  splashing  of  the  waves  did 
he  hear. 

"  O  white  one !  "  he  cried. 

But  onlv  the  scream  of  a  sea-mew,  as  it 
hovered  over  that  boat  filled  with  dead  men, 
made  answer. 


Ill 


All  day  the  Blind  Harper  steered  the  galley 
of  the  dead.  There  was  a  faint  wind  moving 
out  of  the  west.  The  boat  went  before  it, 
slow,  and  with  a  low,  sighing  wash. 

Torcall  saw  the  red  gaping  wounds  of  the 
dead,  and  the  glassy  eyes  of  the  nine  men. 

It  is  better  not  to  be  blind  and  to  see  the 
dead,"  he  muttered,  "  than  to  be  blind  and  to 
see  the  dead." 

The  man  who  had  been  steersman  leaned 
against  him.  He  took  him  in  his  shuddering 
grip  and  thrust  him  into  the  sea. 

But  when,  an  hour  later,  he  put  his  hand 
to  the  coolness  of  the  water,  he  drew  it  back 
with  a  cry,  for  it  was  on  the  cold,  stiff  face 
of  the  dead  man  that  it  had  fallen.  The  long 
hair  had  caught  in  a  cleft  in  the  leather  where 
the  withes  had  given. 

For  another  hour  Torcall  sat  with  his  chin 

173 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

in  his  right  hand,  and  his  unseeing  eyes  star- 
ing upon  the  dead.  He  heard  no  sound  at 
all,  save  the  lap  of  wave  upon  wave,  and  the 
suss  of  spray  against  spray,  and  a  bubbling 
beneath  the  boat,  and  the  low,  steady  swish  of 
the  body  that  trailed  alongside  the  steering  oar. 

At  the  second  hour  before  sundown  he 
lifted  his  head.  The  sound  he  heard  was  the 
sound  of  waves  beating  upon  rocks. 

At  the  hour  before  sundown  he  moved  the 
oar  rapidly  to  and  fro,  and  cut  away  the  body 
that  trailed  behind  the  boat.  The  noise  of  the 
waves  upon  the  rocks  was  now  a  loud  song. 

When  the  last  sunfire  burned  upon  his  neck, 
and  made  the  long  hair  upon  his  shoulders 
ashine,  he  smelt  the  green  smell  of  grass. 
Then  it  was  too  that  he  heard  the  muffled  fall 
of  the  sea,  in  a  quiet  haven,  where  shelves  of 
sand  were. 

He  followed  that  sound,  and  while  he 
strained  to  hear  any  voice  the  boat  grided 
upon  the  sand,  and  drifted  to  one  side.  Tak- 
ing his  harp,  Torcall  drove  an  oar  into  the 
sand,  and  leaped  on  to  the  shore.  When  he 
was  there,  he  listened.  There  was  silence. 
Far,  far  away  he  heard  the  falling  of  a  moun- 
tain-torrent, and  the  thin,  faint  cry  of  an 
eagle,  where  the  sun-flame  dyed  its  eyrie  as 
with  streaming  blood. 

174 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

So  he  lifted  his  harp,  and,  harping  low, 
with  an  old  broken  song  on  his  lips,  moved 
away  from  that  place,  and  gave  no  more 
thought  to  the  dead. 

It  was  deep  gloaming  when  he  came  to  a 
wood.     He   felt  the  cold  green  breath   of  it. 

"  Come,"  said  a  voice,   low  and   sweet. 

"And  who  will  you  be?  "  asked  Torcall  the 
Harper,  trembling  because  of  the  sudden  voice 
in  the  stillness. 

"  I  am  a  child,  and  here  is  my  hand,  and 
I  will  lead  you,  Torcall  of  Lochlin." 

The  blind  man  had  fear  upon  him. 

"  Who  are  you  that  in  a  strange  place  are 
for  knowing  who  I   am  ?  " 

"  Come." 

"  Ay,  sure,  it  is  coming  I  am,  white  one ; 
but  tell  me  who  you  are,  and  whence  you« 
came,  and  whither  we  go." 

Then  a  voice  that  he  knew  sang: 

O  where  the  winds  gather 

The  souls  of  the  dead, 
O  Torcall,  my  father, 

My  soul  is  led! 

But  a  river  is  here, 

And  a  whirling  Sword — 
And  a  Woman  washing 

By  a  Ford! 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

Torcall  Dall  was  as  the  last  leaf  on  a  tree 
at  that. 

"  Were  you  on  the  boat  ?  "  he  whispered 
hoarsely. 

But  it  seemed  to  him  that  another  voice  an- 
swered :  "  Yea,  even  so." 

"  Tell  me,  for  I  have  blindness :  Is  it 
peace  ?  " 

"  It  is  peace." 

"  Are  you  man,  or  child,  or  of  the  Hidden 
People?" 

"  I  am  a  shepherd." 

"  A  shepherd  ?  Then,  sure,  you  will  guide 
me  through  this  wood?  And  what  will  be 
beyond  this  wood  ?  " 

"  A  river." 

"  And  what  river  will  that  be  ?  " 

"  Deep  and  terrible.  It  runs  through  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow." 

"  And  is  there  no  ford  there  ?  " 

"  Ay,  there  is  a  ford." 

"  And  who  will  guide  me  across  that 
ford  ?  " 

"  She." 

"Who?" 

"  The  Washer  of  the  Ford." 

But  hereat  Torcall  Dall  gave  a  sore  cry 
and  snatched  his  hand  away,  and  fled  sidelong 
into  an  alley  of  the  wood. 

176 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

It  was  moonshine  when  he  lay  down, 
weary.  The  sound  of  flowing  water  filled  his 
ears. 

"  Come,"  said  a  voice. 

So  he  rose  and  went.  When  the  cold 
breath  of  the  water  was  upon  his  face,  the 
guide  that  led  him  put  a  fruit  into  his  hand. 

"  Eat,  Torcall  Dall !  " 

He  ate.  He  was  no.  more  Torcall  Dall. 
He  felt  his  sight  coming  upon  him  again. 
Out  of  the  blackness  shadows  came ;  out  of 
the  shadows,  the  great  boughs  of  trees ;  from 
the  boughs,  dark  branches  and  dark  clusters 
of  leaves ;  above  the  branches,  white  stars ; 
below  the  branches,  white  flowers ;  and  be- 
yond these,  the  moonshine  on  the  grass  and 
the  moonfire  on  the  flowing  of  a  river  dark 
and  deep. 

"  Take  your  harp,  O  Harper,  and  sing  the 
song  of  what  you  see." 

Torcall  heard  the  voice,  but  saw  no  one. 
No  shadow  moved.  Then  he  walked  out  upon 
the  moonlit  grass ;  and  at  the  ford  he  saw  a 
woman  stooping  and  washing  shroud  after 
shroud  of  woven  moonbeams :  washing  them 
there  in  the  flowing  water,  and  singing  low 
a  song  that  he  did  not  hear.  He  did  not  see 
her  face.     But  she  was  young,  and  with  long 

177 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

black  hair  that  fell  like  the  shadow  of  night 
over  a  white  rock. 

So  Torcall  took  his  harp,  and  he  sang: 

Glory  to  the  great  Gods,  it  is  no  Sword  I  am  seeing; 
Nor  do  I  see  aught  but  the  flowing  of  a  river. 
And  I  see  shadows  on  the  flow  that  are  ever  fleeing, 
And  I  see  a  woman  washing  shrouds  for  ever  and 
ever. 

Then  he  ceased,  for  he  heard  the  woman 
sing: 

Glory  to  God  on  high,  and  to  Mary,  Mother  of  Jesus, 
Here  am  I  washing  away  the  sins  of  the  shriven, 
O  Torcall  of  Lochlin,  throw  off  the  red  sins  that  ye 

cherish 
And  I  will  be  giving  you  the  washen  shroud  that  they 

wear  in  Heaven. 

Filled  with  a  great  awe,  Torcall  bowed  his 
head.  Then  once  more  he  took  his  harp, 
and  he  sang: 

0  well  it  is  I  am  seeing.  Woman  of  the  Shrouds, 
That  you  have  not  for  me  any  whirling  of  the  Sword ; 

1  have  lost  my  gods,  O  woman,  so  what  will  the  name 

be 
Of  thee  and  thy  gods,  O  woman  that  art  Washer  of 
the  Ford? 

But  the  woman  did  not  look  up  from  the 
dark  water,  nor  did  she  cease  from  washing 
the  shrouds  made  of  the  woven  moonbeams. 

178 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

The  Harper  heard  this  song  above  the  sighing 
of  the  water: 

It  is  Mary  Magdalene  my  name  is,  and  I  loved  Christ. 
And  Christ  is  the  Son  of  God  and  of  Mary  the  Mother 

of  Heaven. 
And  this  river  is  the  river  of  death,  and  the  shadows 
Are  the  fleeing  souls  that  are  lost  if  they  be  not 

shriven. 

Then  Torcall  drew  closer  to  the  stream.  A 
melancholy  wind  was  upon  it. 

"  Where  are  all  the  dead  of  the  world  ?  " 
he  said. 

But  the  woman  answered  not. 

"  And  what  is  the  end,  you  that  are  called 
Mary?" 

Then  the  woman  rose. 

"  Would  you  cross  the  Ford,  O  Torcall  the 
Harper?" 

He  made  no  word  upon  that.  But  he  lis- 
tened. He  heard  a  woman  singing  faint  and 
low,  far  away  in  the  dark.  He  drew  more 
near. 

"  Would  you  cross  the  Ford,  O  Torcall  ?  " 

He  made  no  word  upon  that ;  but  once  more 
he  listened.  He  heard  a  little  child  crying 
in  the  night. 

"  Ah,  lonely  heart  of  the  white  one,"  he 
sighed,  and  his  tears  fell. 

179 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

Mary  Magdalene  turned  and  looked  upon 
him. 

It  was  the  face  of  Sorrow  she  had.  She 
stooped  and  took  up  the  tears. 

"  They  are  bells  of  joy,"  she  said.  And 
he  heard  a  faint,  sweet  ringing  in  his  ears. 

A  prayer  came  out  of  his  heart.  A  blind 
prayer  it  was,  but  God  gave  it  wings.  It  flew 
to  Mary,  who  took  and  kissed  it,  and  gave  it 
song. 

"  It  is  the  Song  of  Peace,"  she  said.  And 
Torcall  had  peace. 

"What  is  best,  O  Torcall?"  she  asked,— 
rustling-sweet  as  rain  among  the  trees  her 
voice  was.  "What  is  best?  The  sword,  or 
peace  ?  " 

"  Peace,"  he  answered ;  and  he  was  white 
now,  and  was  old. 

"  Take  your  harp,"  Mary  said,  "  and  go  in 
unto  the  Ford.  But,  lo,  now  I  clothe  you 
with  a  white  shroud.  And  if  you  fear  the 
drowning  flood,  follow  the  bells  that  were 
your  tears ;  and  if  the  dark  affright  you,  fol- 
low the  song  of  the  prayer  that  came  out  of 
your  heart." 

So  Torcall  the  Harper  moved  into  the 
whelming  flood,  and  he  played  a  new  strange 
air  like  the  laughing  of  a  child. 

Deep  silence  there  was.     The  moonshine  lay 

1 80 


The  Washer  of  the  Ford 

upon  the  obscure  wood,  and  the  darkling-  river 
flowed  sighing-  through  the  soundless  gloom. 
The  Washer  of  the  Ford  stooped  once 
more.  Low  and  sweet,  as  of  yore  and  for 
ever,  over  the  drowning  souls  she  sang  her 
immemorial  song. 


i8i 


ST  BRIDE   OF  THE   ISLES 


To  the  beautiful  memory  of 
S.  F.  Alden. 


SLOINNEADH    BRIGHDE,    MUIME    CHRIOSD 

Brighde  nighean  Dughaill  Duinn, 

'Ic  Aoidth,  'ic  Arta,  'ic  Cuinn. 

Gach  la  is  gach  oidhche 

Ni  mi  cuimhneachadh  air  sloinneadh  Brighde. 

Cha  mharbhar  mi, 

Cha  ghuinear  mi, 

Cha  ghonar  mi, 

Cha  mho  dh'  fhagas  Criosd  an  dearmad  mi; 

Cha  loisg  teine  gniomh  Shatain  mi; 

'S  cha  bhath  uisge  no  saile  mi; 

'S  mi  fo  choniraig  Naoimh  Moire 

'S  mo  chaomh  mhuime,  Brighde. 

The  Genealogy  of  St  Brigit  or  St  Bride 
Foster-Moiher  of  Christ. 

St  Brigit,  the  daughter  of  Dughall  Donn, 

Son  of  Hugh,  son  of  Art,  son  of  Conn. 

Each  day  and  each  night 

I  will  meditate  on  the  genealogy  of  St  Brigit. 

[Whereby]  I  will  not  be  killed, 

I  will  not  be  wounded, 

I  will  not  be  bewitched; 

Neither  will  Christ  forsake  me ; 

Satan's  fire  will  not  burn  me; 

Neither  water  nor  sea  shall  drown  me; 

For  I  am  under  the  protection  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 

And  my  gentle  foster-mother  St  Brigit. 


184 


St   Bride   of  the   Isles 


Before  ever  St  Colum  came  across  the 
Moyle  to  the  island  of  lona,  that  was  then  by 
strangers  called  Innis-nan-Dhruidhneach,  the 
Isle  of  the  Druids,  and  by  the  natives  loua, 
there  lived  upon  the  south-east  slope  of  Dun-I 
a  poor  herdsman  named  Duvach.  Poor  he 
was,  for  sure,  though  it  was  not  for  this  rea- 
son that  he  could  not  win  back  to  Ireland, 
green  Banba,  as  he  called  it :  but  because  he 
was  an  exile  thence,  and  might  never  again 

Note. — This  legendary  romance  is  based  upon  the 
ancient  and  still  current  (though  often  hopelessly 
contradictory)  legends  concerning  Brighid,  or  Bride, 
commonly  known  as  "Muime  Chriosd" — i.e.,  the 
Foster-Mother  of  Christ.  From  the  universal  honour 
and  reverence  in  which  she  was  and  is  held — second 
only  in  this  respect  to  the  Virgin  herself — she  is  also 
called  "Mary  of  the  Gael."  Another  name,  frequent 
in  the  West,  is  "  Brighde-nam-Brat" — i.e.  St  Bride  of 
the  Mantle,  a  name  explained  in  the  course  of  this 
legendary  story.  Brigit  the  Christian  saint  should 
not,  however,  be  confused  with  a  much  earlier  and 
remoter   Brigit,  the  ancient   Celtic   Muse  of   Song. 

185 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

smell  the  heather  blowing  over  Sliabh-Gorm 
in  what  of  old  was  the  realm  of  Aoimag. 

He  was  a  prince  in  his  own  land,  though 
none  on  lona  save  the  Arch-Druid  knew  what 
his  name  was.  The  high  priest,  however, 
knew  that  Diivach  was  the  royal  Dughall, 
called  Dughall  Donn,  the  son  of  Hugh  the 
King,  the  son  of  Art,  the  son  of  Conn,  In 
his  youth  he  had  been  accused  of  having  done 
a  wrong  against  a  noble  maiden  of  the  blood. 
When  her  child  was  born  he  was  made  to 
swear  across  her  dead  body  that  he  would  be 
true  to  the  daughter  for  whom  she  had  given 
up  her  life,  that  he  would  rear  her  in  a  holy 
place,  but  away  from  Eire,  and  that  he  would 
never  set  foot  within  that  land  again.  This 
was  a  bitter  thing  for  Dughall  Donn  to  do: 
the  more  so  as,  before  the  King,  and  the 
priests,  and  the  people,  he  swore  by  the  Wind, 
and  by  the  Moon,  and  by  the  Sun,  that  he 
was  guiltless  of  the  thing  of  which  he  was 
accused.  There  were  many  there  who  be- 
lieved him  because  of  that  sacred  oath :  others, 
too,  forasmuch  as  that  Morna  the  Princess 
had  herself  sworn  to  the  same  effect.  More- 
over, there  was  Aodh  of  the  Golden  Hair,  a 
poet  and  seer,  who  avowed  that  Morna  had 
given  birth  to  an  immortal,  whose  nam.e  would 
one  day  be  as  a  moon  among  the  stars  for 

i86 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

glory.  But  the  King  would  not  be  appeased, 
though  he  spared  the  life  of  his  youngest  son. 
So  it  was  that,  by  the  advice  of  Aodh  of  the 
Druids,  Dughall  Donn  went  northwards 
through  the  realm  of  Clanadon  and  so  to  the 
sea-loch  that  was  then  called  Loc  Feobal. 
There  he  took  boat  with  some  wayfarers 
bound  for  Alba.  But  in  the  Moyle  a  tempest 
arose,  and  the  frail  galley  was  driven  north- 
ward, and  at  sunrise  was  cast  like  a  fish,  spent 
and  dead,  upon  the  south  end  of  loua,  that  is 
now  lona.  Only  two  lived :  Dughall  Donn 
and  the  little  child.  This  was  at  the  place 
where,  on  a  day  of  the  days  in  a  year  that 
was  not  yet  come,  St  Colum  landed  in  his 
coracle,  and  gave  thanks  on  his  bended  knees. 

When,  warmed  by  the  sun,  they  rose,  they 
found  themselves  in  a  waste  place.  Ill  was 
Dughall  in  his  mind  because  of  the  portents, 
and  now  to  his  fear  and  amaze  the  child  Brid- 
get knelt  on  the  stones,  and,  with  claspt  hands, 
small  and  pink  as  the  sea-shells  round  about 
her,  sang  a  song  of  words  which  were  un- 
known to  him.  This  was  the  more  marvel- 
lous, as  she  was  yet  so  young,  and  could  say 
no  word  even  of  Erse,  the  only  tongue  she 
had  heard. 

At  this  portent,  he  knew  that  Aodh  had 
spoken  seeingly.     Truly  this  child  was  not  of 

187 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

human  parentage.  So  he,  too,  kneeled,  and, 
bowing  before  her,  asked  if  she  were  of  the 
race  of  the  Tuatha  de  Danann,  or  of  the  older 
gods,  and  what  her  will  was,  that  he  might 
be  her  servant.  Then  it  was  that  the  kneel- 
ing babe  looked  at  him,  and  sang  in  a  low 
sweet  voice  in  Erse: 

I  am  but  a  little  child, 
Dughall,  son  of  Hugh,  son  of  Art, 
But  my  garment  shall  be  laid 
On  the  lord  of  the  world. 
Yea,  surely  it  shall  be  that  He 
The  King  of  the  Elements  Himself 
Shall  lean  against  my  bosom, 
And  I  will  give  him  peace, 
And  peace  will  I  give  to  all  who  ask 
Because  of  this  mighty  Prince, 
And  because  of  his  Mother  that  is  the  Daughter 
of  Peace. 

And  while  Dughall  Donn  was  still  marvel- 
ling at  this  thing,  the  Arch-Druid  of  lona 
approached,  with  his  white-robed  priests.  A 
grave  welcome  was  given  to  the  stranger. 
While  the  youngest  of  the  servants  of  God 
was  entrusted  with  the  child,  the  Arch-Druid 
took  Dughall  aside  and  questioned  him.  It 
was  not  till  the  third  day  that  the  old  man 
gave  his  decision.  Diighall  Donn  was  to 
abide  on  lona  if  he  so  willed:  but  the  child 

1 88 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

was  to  stay.  His  life  would  be  spared,  nor 
would  he  be  a  bondager  of  any  kind,  and  a 
little  land  to  till  would  be  given  him,  and  all 
that  he  might  need.  But  of  his  past  he  was 
to  say  no  word.  His  name  was  to  become  as 
nought,  and  he  was  to  be  known  simply  as 
Diivach.  The  child,  too,  was  to  be  named 
Bride,  for  that  was  the  way  the  name  Brigit 
was  called  in  the  Erse  of  the  Isles. 

To  the  question  of  Dughall,  that  was 
thenceforth  Duvach,  as  to  why  he  laid  so 
great  stress  on  the  child,  that  was  a  girl,  and 
the  reputed  offspring  of  shame  at  that,  Cathal 
the  Arch-Druid  replied  thus :  "  My  kinsman 
Aodh  of  the  Golden  Hair  who  sent  you  here, 
was  wiser  than  Hugh  the  King  and  all  the 
Druids  of  Aoimag.  Truly,  this  child  is  an 
Immortal.  There  is  an  ancient  prophecy  con- 
cerning her :  surely  of  her  who  is  now  here, 
and  no  other.  There  shall  be,  it  says,  a  spot- 
less maid  born  of  a  virgin  of  the  ancient  im- 
memorial race  in  Innisfail.  And  when  for 
the  seventh  time  the  sacred  year  has  come,  she 
will  hold  Eternity  in  her  lap  as  a  white  flower. 
Her  maiden  breasts  shall  swell  with  milk  for 
the  Prince  of  the  World.  She  shall  give  suck 
to  the  King  of  the  Elements.  So  I  say  unto 
you,  Duvach,  go  in  peace.  Take  unto  thyself 
a  wife,   and  live  upon  the  place   I   will  give 

189 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

thee  on  the  east  side  of  loua.  Treat  Bride 
as  though  she  were  thy  spirit,  but  leave  her 
much  alone,  and  let  her  learn  of  the  sun  and 
the  wind.  In  the  fulness  of  time  the  prophecy 
shall  be  fulfilled." 

So  was  it,  from  that  day  of  the  days.  Du- 
vach  took  a  wife  unto  himself,  who  weaned 
the  little  Bride,  who  grew  in  beauty  and 
grace,  so  that  all  men  marvelled.  Year  by 
year  for  seven  years  the  wife  of  Duvach  bore 
him  a  son,  and  these  grew  apace  in  strength, 
so  that  by  the  beginning  of  the  third  year  of 
the  seventh  cycle  of  Bride's  life  there  were 
three  stalwart  youths  to  brother  her,  and  three 
comely  and  strong  lads,  and  one  young  boy 
fair  to  see.  Nor  did  anyone,  not  even  Bride 
herself,  saving  Cathal  the  Arch-Druid,  know 
that  Duvach  the  herdsman  was  Dughall 
Donn,  of  a  princely  race  in  Innisfail. 

In  the  end,  too,  Duvach  came  to  think  that 
he  had  dreamed,  or  at  the  least  that  Cathal 
had  not  interpreted  the  prophecy  aright.  For 
though  Bride  was  of  exceeding  beauty,  and  of 
a  strange  piety  that  made  the  young  Druids 
bow  before  her  as  though  she  were  a  bandia, 
yet  the  world  went  on  as  before,  and  the  days 
brought  no  change.  Often,  while  she  was 
still  a  child,  he  had  questioned  her  about  the 
words  she  had  said  as  a  babe,  but  she  had 

190 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

no  memory  of  them.  Once,  in  her  ninth 
year,  he  came  upon  her  on  the  hillside  of 
Dun-I  singing  these  self-same  words.  Her 
eyes  dreamed  far  away.  He  bowed  his  head, 
and,  praying  to  the  Giver  of  Light,  hurried  to 
Cathal.  The  old  man  bade  him  speak  no 
more  to  the  child  concerning  the  mysteries. 

Bride  lived  the  hours  of  her  days  upon  the 
slopes  of  Dun-I,  herding  the  sheep,  or  in  fol- 
lowing the  kye  upon  the  green  hillocks  and 
grassy  dunes  of  what  then  as  now  was  called 
the  Machar.  The  beauty  of  the  world  was 
her  daily  food.  The  spirit  within  her  was 
like  sunlight  behind  a  white  flower.  The  bir- 
deens  in  the  green  bushes  sang  for  joy  when 
they  saw  her  blue  eyes.  The  tender  prayers 
that  were  in  her  heart  for  all  the  beasts  and 
birds,  for  helpless  children,  and  tired  women, 
and  for  all  wlio  were  old,  were  often  seen  fly- 
ing: above  her  head  in  the  form  of  white  doves 
of  sunshine. 

But  when  the  middle  of  the  year  came  that 
was,  though  Duvach  had  forgotten  it,  the  year 
of  the  prophecy,  his  eldest  son.  Conn,  who  was 
now  a  man,  murmured  against  the  virginity 
of  Bride,  because  of  her  beauty  and  because 
a  chieftain  of  the  mainland  was  eager  to  wed 
her,  "  I  shall  wed  Bride  or  raid  loua,"  was 
the  message  he  had  sent. 

'        191 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

So  one  day,  before  the  great  fire  of  the 
summer-festival,  Conn  and  his  brothers  re- 
proached Bride. 

"  Idle  are  these  pure  eyes,  O  Bride,  not  to 
be  as  lamps  at  thy  marriage-bed." 

"  Truly,  it  is  not  by  the  eyes  that  we  live," 
replied  the  maiden  gently,  while  to  their  fear 
and  amazement  she  passed  her  hand  before 
her  face  and  let  them  see  that  the  sockets  were 
empty. 

Trembling  with  awe  at  this  portent,  Dti- 
vach  intervened. 

"  By  the  Sun  I  swear  it,  O  Bride,  that  thou 
shalt  marry  whomsoever  thou  wilt  and  none 
other,  and  when  thou  wiliest,  or  not  at  all  if 
such  be  thy  will," 

And  when  he  had  spoken,  Bride  smiled,  and 
passed  her  hand  before  her  face  again,  and 
all  there  were  abashed  because  of  the  blue 
light  as  of  morning  that  was  in  her  shining 
eyes. 


II 


The  still  weather  had  come,  and  all  the  isles 
lay  in  beauty.  Far  south,  beyond  vision, 
ranged  the  coasts  of  Eire :  westward,  leagues 
of  quiet  ocean  dreamed  into  unsailed  wastes 
whose  waves  at  last  laved  the  shores  of  Tir- 

192 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

na'n-Og,  the  Land  of  Eternal  Youth :  north- 
ward, the  spell-bound  waters  sparkled  in  the 
sunlight,  broken  here  and  there  by  purple 
shadows,  that  were  the  isles  of  Stafifa  and 
Ulva,  Lunga  and  the  isles  of  the  columns, 
misty  Coll,  and  Tiree  that  is  the  land  beneath 
the  wave ;  with,  pale  blue  in  the  heat-haze,  the 
mountains  of  Rum  called  Haleval,  Haskeval, 
and  Oreval,  and  the  sheer  Scuir-na-Gillian  and 
the  peaks  of  the  Cuchullins  in  remote  Skye. 

All  the  sweet  loveliness  of  a  late  spring 
remained,  to  give  a  freshness  to  the  glory  of 
summer.     The  birds  had  song  to  them  still. 

It  was  while  the  dew  was  yet  wet  on  the 
grass  that  Bride  came  out  of  her  father's 
house,  and  went  up  the  steep  slope  of  Dun-I. 
The  crying  of  the  ewes  and  lambs  at  the  pas- 
tures came  plaintively  against  the  dawn.  The 
lowing  of  the  kye  arose  from  the  sandy  hol- 
lows by  the  shore,  or  from  the  meadows  on 
the  lower  slopes.  Through  the  whole  island 
went  a  rapid  trickling  sound,  most  sweet  to 
hear :  the  myriad  voices  of  twittering  birds, 
from  the  dotterel  in  the  seaweed  to  the  larks 
climbing  the  blue  spirals  of  heaven. 

This  was  the  morning  of  her  birth,  and  she 
was  clad  in  white.  About  her  waist  was  a 
girdle  of  the  sacred  rowan,  the  feathery  green 
leaves  of  it  flickering  dusky  shadows  upon  her 

193 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

robe  as  she  moved.  The  light  upon  her  yellow 
hair  was  as  when  morning  wakes,  laughing 
low  with  joy  amid  the  tall  corn.  As  she  went 
she  sang,  soft  as  the  crooning  of  a  dove.  If 
any  had  been  there  to  hear  he  would  have 
been  abashed,  for  the  words  were  not  in  Erse, 
and  the  eyes  of  the  beautiful  girl  were  as 
those  of  one  in  a  vision. 

When,  at  last,  a  brief  while  before  sunrise, 
she  reached  the  summit  of  the  Scuir,  that  is 
so  small  a  hill  and  yet  seems  so  big  in  lona 
where  it  is  the  sole  peak,  she  found  three 
young  Druids  there,  ready  to  tend  the  sacred 
fire  the  moment  the  sun-rays  should  kindle  it. 
Each  was  clad  in  a  white  robe,  with  fillets  of 
oak  leaves ;  and  each  had  a  golden  armlet. 
They  made  a  quiet  obeisance  as  she  ap- 
proached. One  stepped  forward,  with  a  flush 
in  his  face  because  of  her  beauty,  that  was  as 
a  sea-wave  for  grace,  and  a  flower  for  purity, 
and  sunlight  for  joy,  and  moonlight  for  peace, 
and  the  wind  for  fragrance. 

"  Thou  mayst  draw  near  if  thou  wilt,  Bride, 
daughter  of  Duvach,"  he  said,  with  something 
of  reverence  as  well  as  of  grave  courtesy  in 
his  voice :  "  for  the  holy  Cathal  hath  said  that 
the  Breath  of  the  Source  of  All  is  upon  thee. 
It  is  not  lawful  for  women  to  be  here  at  this 
moment,  but  thou  hast  the  law  shining  upon 

194 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

thy  face  and  in  thine  eyes.     Hast  thou  come 
to  pray  ?  " 

But  at  that  moment  a  low  cry  came  from 
one  of  his  companions.  He  turned,  and  re- 
joined his  fellows.  Then  all  three  sank  upon 
their  knees,  and  with  outstretched  arms  hailed 
the  rising  of  God. 

As  the  sun  rose,  a  solemn  chant  swelled 
from  their  lips,  ascending  as  incense  through 
the  silent  air.  The  glory  of  the  new  day  came 
soundlessly.  Peace  was  in  the  blue  heaven, 
on  the  blue-green  sea,  on  the  green  land. 
There  was  no  wind,  even  where  the  currents 
of  the  deep  moved  in  shadowy  purple.  The 
sea  itself  was  silent,  making  no  more  than  a 
sighing  slumber-breath  round  the  white  sands 
of  the  isle,  or  a  hushed  whisper  where  the 
tide  lifted  the  long  weed  that  clung  to  the 
rocks. 

In  what  strange,  mysterious  way.  Bride  did 
not  see ;  but  as  the  three  Druids  held  their 
hands  before  the  sacred  fire  there  was  a  faint 
crackling,  then  three  thin  spirals  of  blue 
smoke  rose,  and  soon  dusky  red  and  wan  yel- 
low tongues  of  flame  moved  to  and  fro.  The 
sacrifice  of  God  was  made.  Out  of  the  im- 
measurable heaven  He  had  come,  in  His  gold- 
en chariot.  Now,  in  the  wonder  and  mystery 
of  His  love,  He  was  re-born  upon  the  world, 

195 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

re-born  a  little  fugitive  flame  upon  a  low  hill 
in  a  remote  isle.  Great  must  be  His  love 
that  He  could  die  thus  daily  in  a  thousand 
places :  so  great  His  love  that  He  could  give 
up  His  own  body  to  daily  death,  and  suffer 
the  holy  flame  that  was  in  the  embers  He  il- 
lumined to  be  lighted  and  revered  and  then 
scattered  to  the  four  quarters  of  the  world. 

Bride  could  bear  no  longer  the  mystery  of 
this  great  love.  It  moved  her  to  an  ecstasy. 
What  tenderness  of  divine  love  that  could 
thus  redeem  the  world  daily :  what  long-suf- 
fering for  all  the  evil  and  cruelty  done  hourly 
upon  the  weeping  earth :  what  patience  with 
the  bitterness  of  the  blind  fates !  The  beauty 
of  the  worship  of  Be'al  was  upon  her  as  a 
golden  glory.  Her  heart  leaped  to  a  song 
that  could  not  be  sung.  The  inexhaustible 
love  and  pity  in  her  soul  chanted  a  hymn 
that  was  heard  of  no  Druid  or  mortal  any- 
where, but  was  known  of  the  white  spirits  of 
Life. 

Bowing  her  head,  so  that  the  glad  tears  fell 
warm  as  thunder-rain  upon  her  hands,  she 
rose  and  moved  away. 

Not  far  from  the  summit  of  Dun-I  is  a  hid- 
den pool,  to  this  day  called  the  Fountain  of 
Youth.  Hitherward  she  went,  as  was  her 
wont  when  upon  the  hill  at  the  break  of  day, 

196 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

at  noon,  or  at  sundown.  Close  by  the  huge 
boulder,  which  hides  it  from  above,  she  heard 
a  pitiful  bleating,  and  soon  the  healing  of  her 
eyes  was  upon  a  lamb  which  had  become  fixed 
in  a  crevice  in  the  rock.  On  a  crag  above  it 
stood  a  falcon,  with  savage  cries,  lusting  for 
warm  blood.  With  swift  step  Bride  drew 
near.  There  was  no  hurt  to  the  lambkin  as 
she  lifted  it  in  her  arms.  Soft  and  warm  was 
it  there,  as  a  young  babe  against  the  bosom 
that  mothers  it.  Then  with  quiet  eyes  she 
looked  at  the  falcon,  who  hooded  his  cruel 
gaze. 

"  There  is  no  wrong  in  thee,  Seobhag,"  she 
said  gently ;  "  but  the  law  of  blood  shall  not 
prevail  for  ever.  Let  there  be  peace  this 
morn." 

And  when  she  had  spoken  this  word,  the 
wild  hawk  of  the  hills  flew  down  upon  her 
shoulder,  nor  did  the  heart  of  the  lambkin 
beat  the  quicker,  while  with  drowsy  eyes  it 
nestled  as  against  its  dam.  When  she  stood 
by  the  pool  she  laid  the  little  woolly  creature 
among  the  fern.  Already  the  bleating  of  it 
was  sweet  against  the  forlorn  heart  of  a 
ewe.  The  falcon  rose,  circled  above  her 
head,  and  with  swift  flight  sped  through 
the  blue  air.  For  a  time  Bride  watched  its 
travelling    shadow :    when    it    was    itself    no 

197 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

more  than  a  speck  in  the  golden  haze,  she 
turned,  and  stooped  above  the  Fountain  of 
Youth. 

Beyond  it  stood  then,  though  for  ages  past 
there  has  been  no  sign  of  either,  two  quicken- 
trees.  Now  they  were  gold-green  in  the 
morning  light,  and  the  brown-green  berries 
that  had  not  yet  reddened  were  still  small. 
Fair  to  see  was  the  flickering  of  the  long  fin- 
ger-shadows upon  the  granite  rocks  and  boul- 
ders. 

Often  had  Bride  dreamed  through  their 
foliage;  but  now  she  stared  in  amaze.  She 
had  put  her  lips  to  the  water,  and  had  started 
back  because  she  had  seen,  beyond  her  own 
image,  that  of  a  woman  so  beautiful  that  her 
soul  was  troubled  within  her,  and  had  cried 
its  inaudible  cry,  worshipping.  When,  trem- 
bling, she  had  glanced  again,  there  was  none 
beside  herself.  Yet  what  had  happened? 
For,  as  she  stared  at  the  quicken-trees,  she 
saw  that  their  boughs  had  interlaced,  and 
that  they  now  became  a  green  arch.  What  was 
stranger  still  was  that  the  rowan-clusters  hung 
in  blood-red  masses,  although  the  late  heats 
were  yet  a  long  way  oflF. 

Bride  rose,  her  body  quivering  because  of 
the  cool  sweet  draught  of  the  Fountain  of 
Youth,  so  that  almost  she  imagined  the  water 

198 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

was  for  her  that  day  what  it  could  be  once 
in  each  year  to  every  person  who  came  to  it, 
a  breath  of  new  Hfe  and  the  strength  and 
joy  of  youth.  With  slow  steps  she  advanced 
toward  the  arch  of  the  quickens.  Her  heart 
beat  as  she  saw  that  the  branches  at  the  sum- 
mit had  formed  themselves  into  the  shape  of 
a  wreath  or  crown,  and  that  the  scarlet  berries 
dropped  therefrom  a  steady  rain  of  red  drops 
as  of  blood.  A  sigh  of  joy  breathed  from  her 
lips  when,  deep  among  the  red  and  green,  she 
saw  the  white  merle  of  which  the  ancient  poets 
sang,  and  heard  the  exceeding  wonder  of  its 
rapture,  which  was  now  the  pain  of  joy  and 
now  the  joy  of  pain. 

The  song  of  the  mystic  bird  grew  wilder 
and  more  sweet  as  she  drew  near.  For  a 
brief  while  she  hesitated.  Then,  as  a  white 
dove  drifted  slow  before  her  under  and 
through  the  quicken-boughs,  a  dove  white  as 
snow  but  radiant  with  sunfire,  she  moved  for- 
ward to  follow  with  a  dream-smile  upon  her 
face  and  her  eyes  full  of  the  sheen  of  wonder 
and  mystery,  as  shadowy  waters  flooded  with 
moonshine. 

And  this  was  the  passing  of  Bride,  who 
was  not  seen  again  of  Duvach  or  her  foster- 
brothers  for  the  space  of  a  year  and  a  day. 
Only  Cathal,  the  aged  Arch-Druid,  who  died 

199 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

seven  days  thence,  had  a  vision  of  her,  and 
wept  for  joy. 

Ill 

When  the  strain  of  the  white  merle  ceased, 
though  it  had  seemed  to  her  scarce  longer 
than  the  vanishing  song  of  the  swallow  on 
the  wing,  Bride  saw  that  the  evening  was 
come.  Through  the  violet  glooms  of  dusk 
she  moved  soundlessly,  save  for  the  crispling 
of  her  feet  among  the  hot  sands.  Far  as  she 
could  see  to  right  or  left  there  were  hollows 
and  ridges  of  sand;  where,  here  and  there, 
trees  or  shrubs  grew  out  of  the  parched  soil, 
they  were  strange  to  her.  She  had  heard  the 
Druids  speak  of  the  sunlands  in  a  remote, 
nigh  unreachable  East,  where  there  were  trees 
called  palms,  trees  in  a  perpetual  sunflood  yet 
that  perished  not,  also  tall  dark  cypresses, 
black-green  as  the  holy  yew.  These  were  the 
trees  she  now  saw.  Did  she  dream,  she  won- 
dered? Far  down  in  her  mind  was  some 
memory,  some  floating  vision  only,  mayhap, 
of  a  small  green  isle  far  among  the  northern 
seas.  Voices,  words,  faces,  familiar  yet  un- 
familiar when  she  strove  to  bring  them  near, 
haunted  her. 

The  heat  brooded  upon  the  land.  The  sigh 
of  the  parched  earth  was  "  Water,  water." 

200 


5"^  Bride  of  the  Isles 

As  she  moved  onward  through  the  gloam- 
ing she  descried  white  walls  beyond  her: 
white  walls  and  square  white  buildings,  loom- 
ing ghostly  through  the  dark,  yet  home-sweet 
as  the  bells  of  the  cows  on  the  sea-pastures, 
because  of  the  yellow  lights  every  here  and 
there  agleam. 

A  tall  figure  moved  toward  her,  clad  in 
white,  even  as  those  figures  which  haunted 
her  unremembering  memory.  When  he  drew 
near  she  gave  a  low  cry  of  joy.  The  face  of 
her  father  was  sweet  to  her. 

"Where  will  be  the  pitcher,  Brigit?"he 
said,  though  the  words  were  not  the  words 
that  were  near  her  when  she  was  alone. 
Nevertheless  she  knew  them,  and  the  same 
manner  of  words  was  upon  her  lips. 

"My  pitcher,  father?" 

"  Ah,  dreamer,  w^hen  will  you  be  taking 
heed !  It  is  leaving  your  pitcher  you  will  be, 
and  by  the  Well  of  the  Camels,  no  doubt: 
though  little  matter  will  that  be,  since  there 
is  now  no  water,  and  the  drought  is  heavy 
upon  the  land.     But  .  .  .  Brigit  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  my  father?" 

"  Sure  now,  it  is  not  safe  for  you  to  be 
on  the  desert  at  night.  Wild  beasts  come 
out  of  the  darkness,  and  there  are  robbers 
and    wild    men    who    lurk    in    the    shadow. 

20 1 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

Brigit  .  .  .  Brigit  ...  is  it  dreaming  you 
are  still?" 

"  I  was  dreaming  of  a  cool  green  isle  in 
northern  seas,  where  .  .  ." 

"  Where  you  have  never  been,  foolish  lass, 
and  are  never  like  to  be.  Sure,  if  any  way- 
farer were  to  come  upon  us  you  would  scarce 
be  able  to  tell  him  that  yonder  village  is  Beth- 
lehem, and  that  I  am  Dughall  Donn  the  inn- 
keeper, Dughall,  the  son  of  Hugh,  son  of  Art, 
son  of  Conn.  Well,  well,  I  am  growing  old, 
and  they  say  that  the  old  see  wonders.  But  I 
do  not  wish  to  see  this  wonder,  that  my  daugh- 
ter Brigit  forgets  her  own  town,  and  the 
good  inn  that  is  there,  and  the  strong  sweet 
ale  that  is  cool  against  the  thirst  of  the  weary. 
Sure,  if  the  day  of  my  days  is  near  it  is  near. 
"  Green  be  the  place  of  my  rest,"  I  cry,  even 
as  Oisin  the  son  of  Fionn  of  the  hero-line  of 
Trenmor  cried  in  his  old  age;  though  if  Oisin 
and  the  Fiann  were  here  not  a  green  place 
would  they  find  now,  for  the  land  is  burned 
dry  as  the  heather  after  a  hill-fire.  But  now, 
Brigit,  let  us  go  back  into  Bethlehem,  for 
I  have  that  for  the  saying  which  must  be  said 
at  once." 

In  silence  the  twain  walked  through  the 
gloaming  that  was  already  the  mirk,  till  they 
came  to  the  white  gate,  where  the  asses  and 

202 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

camels  breathed  wearily  in  the  sultry  dark- 
ness, with  dr}'  tongues  moving  round  parched 
mouths.  Thence  they  fared  through  narrow 
streets,  where  a  few  white-robed  Hebrews  and 
sons  of  the  desert  moved  silently,  or  sat  in 
niches.  Finally,  they  came  to  a  great  yard, 
where  more  than  a  score  of  camels  lay  hud- 
dled and  growling  in  their  sleep.  Beyond 
this  was  the  inn,  which  was  known  to  all  the 
patrons  and  friends  of  Dughall  Donn  as  the 
"  Rest  and  Be  Thankful,"  though  formerly  as 
the  Rest  of  Clan-Ailpean,  for  was  he  not  him- 
self through  his  mother  Mac  Alpine  of  the 
Isles,  as  well  as  blood-kin  to  the  great  Cormac 
the  Ard-Righ,  to  whom  his  father,  Hugh,  was 
feudatory  prince? 

As  Dughall  and  Bride  walked  along  the 
stone  flags  of  a  passage  leading  to  the  inner 
rooms,  he  stopped  and  drew  her  attention  to 
the  water-tanks. 

"  Look  you,  my  lass,"  he  said  sorrowfully, 
"  of  these  tanks  and  barrels  nearly  all  are 
empty.  Soon  there  will  be  no  water  what- 
ever, which  is  an  evil  thing  though  I  whisper 
it  in  peace,  to  the  Stones  be  it  said.  Now, 
already  the  folk  who  come  here  murmur.  No 
man  can  drink  ale  all  day  long,  and  those 
wayfarers  who  want  to  wash  the  dust  of  their 
journey  from  their  feet  and  hands  complain 

203 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

bitterly.  And  .  .  .  what  is  that  you  will  be 
saying?  The  kye?  Ay,  sure,  there  is  the 
kye ;  but  the  poor  beasts  are  o'ercome  with 
the  heat,  and  there's  not  a  Cailliach  on  the 
hills  who  could  win  a  drop  more  of  milk  from 
them  than  we  squeeze  out  of  their  udders 
now,  and  that  only  with  rune  after  rune  till 
all  the  throats  of  the  milking  lassies  are  as 
dry  as  the  salt  grass  by  the  sea. 

"  Well,  what  I  am  saying  is  this :  'tis 
months  now  since  any  rain  will  be  falling,  and 
every  crock  of  water  has  been  for  the  treasur- 
ing as  though  it  had  been  the  honey  of  Moy- 
Mell  itself.  The  moon  has  been  full  twice 
since  we  had  the  good  water  brought  from 
the  mountain-springs ;  and  now  they  are  for 
drying  up  too.  The  seers  say  that  the 
drought  will  last.  If  that  is  a  true  word,  and 
there  be  no  rain  till  the  winter  comes,  there 
will  be  no  inn  in  Bethlehem  called  *  The  Rest 
and  Be  Thankful ' ;  for  already  there  is  not 
enough  good  water  to  give  peace  even  to  your 
little  thirst,  my  birdeen.  As  for  the  ale,  it  is 
poor  drink  now  for  man  or  maid,  and  as  for 
the  camels  and  asses,  poor  beasts,  they  don't 
understand  the  drinking  of  it." 

"  That  is  true,  father ;  but  what  is  to  be 
done?" 

"  That's  what  I  will  be  telling  you,  my  lin- 

204 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

tie.  Now,  I  have  been  told  by  an  oganach 
out  of  Jerusalem,  that  lives  in  another  place 
close  by  the  great  town,  that  there  is  a  quench- 
less well  of  pure  water,  cold  as  the  sea  with 
a  north  wind  in  it,  on  a  hill  there  called  the 
Mount  of  Olives.  Now,  it  is  to  that  hill  I 
will  be  going.  I  am  for  taking  all  the  camels 
and  all  the  horses,  and  all  the  asses,  and  will 
lade  each  with  a  burthen  of  water-skins,  and 
come  back  home  again  with  water  enough  to 
last  us  till  the  drought  breaks." 

That  was  all  that  was  said  that  night.  But 
at  the  dawn  the  inn  was  busy,  and  all  the  folk 
in  Bethlehem  were  up  to  see  the  going  abroad 
of  Dughall  Donn  and  Ronald  Mclan,  his 
shepherd,  and  some  Macleans  and  Maccallums 
that  were  then  in  that  place.  It  was  a  fair 
sight  to  see  as  they  went  forth  through  the 
white  gate  that  is  called  the  Gate  of  Nazareth. 
A  piper  walked  first,  playing  the  Gathering  of 
the  Svv^ords :  then  came  Dughall  Donn  on  a 
camel,  and  Mclan  on  a  horse,  and  the  herds- 
men on  asses,  and  then  there  were  the  collies 
barking  for  joy. 

Before  he  had  gone,  Dughall  took  Bride  out 
of  the  hearing  of  the  others.  There  was  only 
a  little  stagnant  water,  he  said ;  and  as  for  the 
ale,  there  was  no  more  than  a  flagon  left  of 
what  was  good.     This  flagon  and  the  one  jar 

205 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

of  pure  water  he  left  with  her.  On  no  ac- 
count was  she  to  give  a  drop  to  any  wayfarer, 
no  matter  how  urgent  he  might  be ;  for  he, 
Dughall,  could  not  say  when  he  would  get 
back,  and  he  did  not  want  to  find  a  dead 
daughter  to  greet  him  on  his  return,  let  alone 
there  being  no  maid  of  the  inn  to  attend  to 
customers.  Over  and  above  that,  he  made 
her  take  an  oath  that  she  would  give  no  one, 
no,  not  even  a  stranger,  accommodation  at  the 
inn,  during  his  absence. 

Afternoon  and  night  came,  and  dawn  and 
night  again,  and  yet  again.  It  was  on  the  af- 
ternoon of  the  third  day,  when  even  the 
crickets  were  dying  of  thirst,  that  Bride  heard 
a  clanging  at  the  door  of  the  inn. 

When  she  went  to  the  door  she  saw  a  weary 
grey-haired  man,  dusty  and  tired.  By  his  side 
was  an  ass  with  drooping  head,  and  on  the 
ass  was  a  woman,  young,  and  of  a  beauty  that 
was  as  the  cool  shadow  of  green  leaves  and 
the  cold  ripple  of  running  waters.  But  beau- 
tiful as  she  was  it  was  not  this  that  made 
Bride  start :  no,  nor  the  heavy  womb  that 
showed  the  woman  was  with  child.  For  she 
remembered  her  of  a  dream — it  was  a  dream, 
sure — when  she  had  looked  into  a  pool  on  a 
mountain-side,  and  seen,  beyond  her  own 
image,  just  this  fair  and  beautiful  face,  the 

206 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

most  beautiful  that  ever  man  saw  since  Naois, 
of  the  Sons  of  Usnach,  beheld  Deirdre  in  the 
forest — ay,  and  loveher  far  even  than  she,  the 
peerless  among  women. 

"  Gu'm  beannaicheadh  Dia  an  tigh,"  said 
the  grey-haired  man  in  a  weary  voice,  "  the 
blessing  of  God  on  this  house." 

"  Soraidh  leat,"  replied  Bride  gently,  "  and 
upon  you  likewise." 

"  Can  you  give  us  food  and  drink,  and, 
after  that,  good  rest  at  this  inn?  Sure  it  is 
grateful  we  will  be.  This  is  my  wife  Mary, 
upon  whom  is  a  mystery :  and  I  am  Joseph,  a 
carpenter  in  Arimathea." 

"  Welcome,  and  to  you,  too,  Mary :  and 
peace.  But  there  is  neither  food  nor  drink 
here,  and  my  father  has  bidden  me  give  shel- 
ter to  none  who  comes  here  against  his  re- 
turn." 

The  carpenter  sighed,  but  the  fair  woman 
on  the  ass  turned  her  shadowy  eyes  upon 
Bride,  so  that  the  maiden  trembled  with  joy 
and  fear. 

"  And  is  it  forgetting  me  you  will  be,  Brig- 
hde-Alona,"  she  murmured,  in  the  good  sweet 
Gaelic  of  the  Isles;  and  the  voice  of  her  was 
like  the  rustle  of  leaves  when  a  soft  rain  is 
falling  in  a  wood. 

"  Sure,  I  remember,"  Bride  whispered,  filled 

207 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

with  deep  awe.  Then  without  a  word  she 
turned,  and  beckoned  them  to  follow:  which, 
having  left  the  ass  by  the  doorway,  they  did. 

"  Here  is  all  the  ale  that  I  have,"  she  said, 
as  she  gave  the  flagon  to  Joseph :  "  and  here, 
Mary,  is  all  the  water  that  there  is.  Little 
there  is,  but  it  is  you  that  are  welcome 
to  it." 

Then,  when  they  had  quenched  their  thirst 
she  brought  out  oatcakes  and  scones  and 
brown  bread,  and  would  fain  have  added  milk, 
but  there  was  none. 

"  Go  to  the  byre,  Brigit,"  said  Mary,  "  and 
the  first  of  the  kye  shall  give  milk." 

So  Bride  went,  but  returned  saying  that  the 
creature  would  not  give  milk  without  a  sian 
or  song,  and  that  her  throat  was  too  dry  to 
sing. 

"  Say  this  sian,"  said  Mary. 

Give  up  thy  milk  to  her  who  calls 
Across  the  low  green  hills  of  Heaven 
And  streatn-cocl  meads  of  Paradise! 

And  sure  enough,  when  Bride  did  this,  the 
milk  came :  and  she  soothed  her  thirst,  and 
went  back  to  her  guests  rejoicing.  It  was 
sorrow  to  her  not  to  let  them  stay  where  they 
were,  but  she  could  not,  because  of  her  oath. 

The  man  Joseph  was  weary,  and  said  he 

208 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

was  too  tired  to  seek  far  that  night,  and  asked 
if  there  was  no  empty  byre  or  stable  where 
he  and  Mary  could  sleep  till  morning.  At 
that,  Bride  was  glad :  for  she  knew  there  was 
a  clean  cool  stable  close  to  the  byre  where 
her  kye  were:  and  thereto  she  led  them,  and 
returned  with  peace  at  her  heart. 

When  she  was  in  the  inn  again,  she  was 
afraid  once  more:  for  lo,  though  Mary  and 
Joseph  had  drunken  deep  of  the  jar  and  the 
flagon,  each  was  now  full  as  it  had  been.  Of 
the  food,  too,  none  seemed  to  have  been 
taken,  though  she  had  herself  seen  them  break 
the  scones  and  the  oatcakes. 

It  was  dusk  when  her  reverie  was  broken 
by  the  sound  of  the  pipes.  Soon  thereafter 
Dughall  Donn  and  his  following  rode  up  to 
the  inn,  and  all  were  glad  because  of  the 
cool  water,  and  the  grapes,  and  the  green 
fruits  of  the  earth,  that  they  brought  with 
them. 

While  her  father  was  eating  and  drinking, 
merry  because  of  the  ale  that  was  still  in  the 
flagon.  Bride  told  him  of  the  wayfarers. 
Even  as  she  spoke,  he  made  a  sign  of  silence, 
because  of  a  strange,  unwonted  sound  that  he 
heard. 

"  What  will  that  be  meaning?  "  he  asked,  in 
a  loWj  hushed  voice. 

209 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

"  Sure  it  is  the  rain  at  last,  father.  That 
is  a  glad  thing.  The  earth  will  be  green 
again.  The  beasts  will  not  perish.  Hark,  I 
hear  the  noise  of  it  coming  down  from  the 
hills  as  well."     But  Dughall  sat  brooding. 

"  Ay,"  he  said  at  last,  "  is  it  not  foretold 
that  the  Prince  of  the  World  is  to  be  born  in 
this  land,  during  a  heavy  falling  of  rain,  after 
a  long  drought?  And  who  is  for  knowing 
that  Bethlehem  is  not  the  place,  and  that  this 
is  not  the  night  of  the  day  of  the  days? 
Brigit,  Brigit,  the  woman  Mary  must  be 
the  mother  of  the  Prince,  who  is  to  save  all 
mankind  out  of  evil  and  pain  and  death !  " 

And  with  that  he  rose  and  beckoned  to  her 
to  follow.  They  took  a  lantern,  and  made 
their  way  through  the  drowsing  camels  and 
asses  and  horses,  and  past  the  byres  where 
the  kye  lowed  gently,  and  so  to  the  stable. 

"  Sure  that  is  a  bright  light  they  are  hav- 
ing," Dughall  muttered  uneasily ;  for,  truly, 
it  was  as  though  the  shed  were  a  shell  filled 
with  the  fires  of  sunrise. 

Lightly  they  pushed  back  the  door.  When 
they  saw  what  they  saw  they  fell  upon 
their  knees.  Mary  sat  with  her  heavenly 
beauty  upon  her  like  sunshine  on  a  dusk 
land :  in  her  lap,  a  Babe,  laughing  sweet  and 
low. 

2IO 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

Never  had  they  seen  a  Child  so  fair.  He 
was  as  though  wrought  of  Hght. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  murmured  Dughall  Donn,  of 
Joseph,  who  stood  near,  with  rapt  eyes. 

"  It  is  the  Prince  of  Peace." 

And  with  that  Mary  smiled,  and  the  Child 
slept. 

"  Brigit,  my  sister  dear " — and,  as  she 
whispered  this,  Mary  held  the  little  one  to 
Bride. 

The  fair  girl  took  the  Babe  in  her  arms, 
and  covered  it  with  her  mantle.  Therefore 
it  is  that  she  is  known  to  this  day  as  Brigde- 
nam-Brat,  St  Bride  of  the  Mantle. 

And  all  through  that  night,  while  the 
mother  slept,  Bride  nursed  the  Child  with  ten- 
der hands  and  croodling  crooning  songs.  And 
this  was  one  of  the  songs  that  she  sang: 

Ah,  Baby  Christ,  so  dear  to  me, 

Sang  Brigit  Bride: 
How  sweet  thou  art, 
My  baby  dear. 
Heart  of  my  heart ! 

Heavy  her  body  was  with  thee, 
Mary,  beloved  of  One  in  Three, 

Sang  Brigit  Bride — 
Mary,  who  bore  thee,  little  lad: 
But  light  her  heart  was,  light  and  glad 
With  God's  love  clad. 

211 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

Sit  on  my  knee, 

Sang  Brigit  Bride: 

Sit  here 
O  Baby  dear, 

Close  to  my  heart,  my  heart: 
For  I  thy  foster-mother  am. 
My  helpless  lamb! 
O  have  no  fear, 

Sang  good  St  Bride. 

None,  none, 
No  fear  have  I : 
So  let  me  cling 
Close  to  thy  side 
Whilst  thou  dost  sing, 
O  Brigit  Bride! 

My  Lord,  my  Prince  I  sing: 
My  baby  dear,  my  King! 
Sang  Brigit  Bride. 

It  was  on  this  night  that,  far  away  in  lona, 
the  Arch-Druid  Cathal  died.  But  before  the 
breath  went  from  him  he  had  his  vision  of 
joy,  and  his  las-t  words  were: 

Brighde  'dol  air  a  glun 

Righ  nan  dul  a  shuidh  'na  h-uchd! 

(Brigit  Bride  upon  her  knee. 

The  King  of  the  Elements  asleep  on  her  breast!) 

At  the  coming  of  dawn  Mary  awoke,  and 
took  the  Child.  She  kissed  Bride  upon  the 
brows,  and  said  this  thing  to  her :  "  Brigit, 

212 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

my  sister  dear,  thou  shalt  be  known  unto  all 
time  as  Muime  Chriosd." 


IV 

No  sooner  had  Mary  spoken  than  Bride  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep.  So  profound  was  this 
slumber  that  when  Dughall  Donn  came  to  see 
to  the  wayfarers,  and  to  tell  them  that  the 
milk  and  the  porridge  were  ready  for  the 
breaking  of  their  fast,  he  could  get  no  word 
of  her  at  all.  She  lay  in  the  clean,  yellow 
straw  beneath  the  manger,  where  Mary  had 
laid  the  Child.  Diighall  stared  in  amaze. 
There  was  no  sign  of  the  mother,  nor  of  the 
Babe  that  was  the  Prince  of  Peace,  nor  of  the 
douce,  quiet  man  that  was  Joseph  the  carpen- 
ter. As  for  Bride,  she  not  only  slept  so  sound 
that  no  word  of  his  fell  against  her  ears,  but 
she  gave  him  awe.  For  as  he  looked  at  her 
he  saw  that  she  was  surrounded  by  a  glowing 
light.  Something  in  his  heart  shaped  itself 
into  a  prayer,  and  he  knelt  beside  her,  sobbing 
low.  When  he  rose,  it  was  in  peace.  May- 
hap an  angel  had  comforted  his  soul  in  its 
dark  shadowy  haunt  of  his  body. 

It  was  late  when  Bride  awoke,  though  she 
did  not  open  her  eyes,  but  lay  dreaming.  For 
long  she   thought   she  was   in   Tir-Tairngire, 

213 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

the  Land  of  Promise,  or  wandering  on  the 
honey-sweet  plain  of  Magh-Mell ;  for  the  wind 
of  dreamland  brought  exquisite  odours  to  her, 
and  in  her  ears  were  confused  songs  of  great 

joy- 

All  round  her  there  was  a  music  of  re- 
joicing. Voices,  lovelier  than  any  she  had 
ever  heard,  resounded ;  glad  voices  full  of 
winged  rapture.  There  was  a  pleasant  tumult 
of  harps  and  trumpets,  and  as  from  across 
blue  hills  and  over  calm  water  came  the  sound 
of  the  bagpipes.  She  listened  with  tears. 
Loud  and  glad  were  the  pipes  at  times,  full 
of  triumph,  as  when  the  heroes  of  old 
marched  with  Cuchullin  or  went  down  to  bat- 
tle with  Fionn:  again,  they  were  low  and 
sweet,  like  humming  of  bees  when  the  heather 
is  heavy  with  the  honey-ooze.  The  songs  and 
wild  music  of  the  angels  lulled  her  into  peace : 
for  a  time  no  thought  of  the  woman  Mary 
came  to  her,  nor  of  the  Child  that  was  her 
foster-child. 

Suddenly  it  was  in  her  mind  as  though  the 
pipes  played  the  chant  that  is  called  the 
"  Aoibhneas  a  Shlighe,"  "  the  joy  of  his  way," 
a  march  played  before  a  bridegroom  going  to 
his  bride. 

Out  of  this  glad  music  came  a  solitary  voice, 
like  a  child  singing  on  the  hillside. 

214 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

"  The  way  of  wonder  shall  be  thine,  O 
Brighde-Naomha !  " 

This  was  what  the  child-voice  sang.  Then 
it  was  as  though  all  the  harpers  of  the  west 
were  playing  "  air  clarsach  " :  and  the  song  of 
a  multitude  of  voices  was  this : 

"  Blessed  art  thou,  O  Brigit,  who  nursed 
the  King  of  the  Elements  in  thy  bosom :  bless- 
ed thou,  the  Virgin  Sister  of  the  Virgin 
Mother,  for  unto  all  time  thou  shalt  be  called 
Muime  Chriosd,  the  Foster-Mother  of  Jesus 
that  is  the  Christ." 

With  that,  Bride  remembered  all,  and 
opened  her  eyes.  Nought  strange  was  there 
to  see,  save  that  she  lay  in  the  stable.  Then 
as  she  noted  that  the  gloaming  had  come,  she 
wondered  at  the  soft  light  that  prevailed  in  the 
shed,  though  no  lamp  or  candle  burned  there. 
In  her  ears,  too,  still  lingered  a  wild  and 
beautiful  music. 

It  was  strange.  Was  it  all  a  dream,  she 
pondered.  But  even  as  she  thought  thus,  she 
saw  half  of  her  mantle  lying  upon  the  straw 
in  the  manger.  Much  she  marvelled  at  this, 
but  when  she  took  the  garment  in  her  hand 
she  wondered  more.  For  though  it  was  no 
more  than  a  half  of  the  poor  mantle  where- 
with she  had  wrapped  the  Babe,  it  was  all 
wrought  with  mystic  gold  lines  and  with  pre- 

215 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

cious  stones  more  glorious  than  ever  Arch- 
Druid  or  Island  Prince  had  seen.  The  marvel 
gave  her  awe  at  last,  when,  as  she  placed  the 
garment  upon  her  shoulder,  it  covered  her 
completely. 

She  knew  now  that  she  had  not  dreamed, 
and  that  a  miracle  was  done.  So  with  glad- 
ness she  went  out  of  the  stable,  and  into  the 
inn.  Dughall  Donn  was  amazed  when  he  saw 
her,  and  then  rejoiced  exceedingly. 

"  Why  are  you  so  merry,  my  father,"  she 
asked. 

"  Sure  it  is  glad  that  I  am.  For  now  the 
folk  will  be  laughing  the  wrong  way.  This 
very  morning  I  was  so  pleased  with  the  pleas- 
ure, that  while  the  pot  was  boiling  on  the 
peats  I  went  out  and  told  every  one  I  met  that 
the  Prince  of  Peace  was  come,  and  had  just 
been  born  in  the  stable  behind  the  '  Rest  and 
Be  Thankful.'  Well,  that  saying  was  just  like 
a  weasel  among  the  rabbits,  only  it  was  an  old 
toothless  weasel :  for  all  Bethlehem  mocked 
me,  some  with  jeers,  some  with  hard  words, 
and  some  with  threats.  Sure,  I  cursed  them 
right  and  left.  No,  not  for  all  my  cursing — 
and  by  the  blood  of  my  fathers,  I  spared  no 
man  among  them,  wishing  them  sword  and 
fire,  the  black  plague  and  the  grey  death — 
would  they  believe.     So  back  it  was  that   I 

216 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

came,  and  going  through  the  inn  I  am  come  to 
the  stable.  '  Sorrow  is  on  me  Hke  a  grey  mist,' 
said  Oisin,  mourning  for  Oscur,  and  sure  it 
was  a  grey  mist  that  was  on  me  when  not  a 
sign  of  man,  woman,  or  child  was  to  be  seen, 
and  you  so  sound  asleep  that  a  March  gale  in 
the  Moyle  wouldn't  have  roused  you.  Well, 
I  went  back,  and  told  this  thing,  and  all  the 
people  in  Bethlehem  mocked  at  me.  And  the 
Elders  of  the  People  came  at  last,  and  put  a 
fine  upon  me:  and  coiulemned  me  to  pay  three 
barrels  of  good  ale,  and  a  sack  of  meal,  and 
three  thin  chains  of  gold,  each  three  yards 
long:  and  this  for  causing  a  false  rumour,  and 
still  more  for  making  a  laughing-stock  of  the 
good  folk  of  Bethlehem.  There  was  a  man 
called  Murdoch-Dhu,  who  is  the  chief  smith  in 
Nazareth,  and  it's  him  I'm  thinking  will  have 
laughed  the  Elders  into  doing  this  hard  thing." 

It  was  then  that  Bride  was  aware  of  a  mar- 
vel upon  her,  for  she  blew  an  incantation  off 
the  palm  of  her  hand,  and  by  that  frith  she 
knew  where  the  dues  were  to  be  found. 

"  By  what  I  see  in  the  air  that  is  blown  ofif 
the  palm  of  my  hand,  father,  I  bid  you  go  into 
the  cellar  of  the  inn.  There  you  will  find 
three  barrels  full  of  good  ale,  and  beside  them 
a  sack  of  meal,  and  the  sack  is  tied  with  three 
chains  of  gold,  each  three  yards  long." 

217 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

But  while  Dughall  Donn  went  away  rejoic- 
ing, and  found  that  which  Bride  had  foretold, 
she  passed  out  into  the  street.  None  saw  her 
in  the  gloaming,  or  as  she  went  toward  the 
Gate  of  the  East.  When  she  passed  by  the 
Lazar-house  she  took  her  mantle  off  her  back 
and  laid  it  in  the  place  of  offerings.  All  the 
jewels  and  fine  gold  passed  into  invisible  birds 
with  healing  wings :  and  these  birds  flew  about 
the  heads  of  the  sick  all  night,  so  that  at  dawn 
every  one  arose,  with  no  ill  vipon  him,  and 
went  on  his  way  rejoicing.  As  each  went  out 
of  Bethlehem  that  morning  of  the  mornings 
he  found  a  clean  white  robe  and  new  sandals 
at  the  first  mile ;  and,  at  the  second,  food  and 
cool  water ;  and,  at  the  third,  a  gold  piece  and 
a  staff. 

The  guard  that  was  at  the  Eastern  Gate  did 
not  hail  Bride.  All  the  gaze  of  him  was  upon 
a  company  of  strange  men,  shepherd-kings, 
who  said  they  had  come  out  of  the  East  led 
by  a  star.  They  carried  rare  gifts  with  them 
when  they  first  came  to  Bethlehem :  but  no 
man  knew  whence  they  came,  what  they 
wanted,  or  whither  they  went. 

For  a  time  Bride  walked  along  the  road  that 
leads  to  Nazareth.  There  was  fear  in  her 
gentle  heart  when  she  heard  the  howling  of 
hyenas  down  in  the  dark  hollows,  and  she  was 

2l8 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

glad   when    the    moon    came   out    and   shone 
quietly  upon  her. 

In  the  moonhght  she  saw  that  there  were 
steps  in  the  dew  before  her.  She  could  see  the 
black  print  of  feet  in  the  silver  sheen  on  the 
wet  grass,  for  it  was  on  a  grassy  hill  that  she 
now  walked,  though  a  day  ago  every  leaf  and 
sheath  there  had  lain  brown  and  withered. 
The  footprints  she  followed  were  those  of  a 
woman  and  of  a  child. 

All  night  through  she  tracked  those  wan- 
dering feet  in  the  dew.  They  were  always 
fresh  before  her,  and  led  her  away  from  the 
villages,  and  also  where  no  wild  beasts 
prowled  through  the  gloom.  There  was  no 
weariness  upon  her,  though  often  she  won- 
dered when  she  should  see  the  fair  wondrous 
face  she  sought.  Behind  her  also  were  foot- 
steps in  the  dew,  though  she  knew  nothing  of 
them.  They  were  those  of  the  Following 
Love.  And  this  was  the  Lorgadh-Brighde  of 
which  men  speak  to  this  day :  the  Quest  of  the 
holy  St  Bride. 

All  night  she  walked ;  now  upon  the  high 
slopes  of  a  hill.  Never  once  did  she  have  a 
glimpse  of  any  figure  in  the  moonlight,  though 
the  steps  in  the  dew  before  her  were  newly 
made,  and  none  lay  in  the  glisten  a  short  way 
ahead. 

219 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

Suddenly  she  stopped.  There  were  no  more 
footprints.  Eagerly  she  looked  before  her. 
On  a  hill  beyond  the  valley  beneath  her  she 
saw  the  gleaming  of  yellow  stars.  These  were 
the  lights  of  a  city.  "  Behold,  it  is  Jerusalem," 
she  murmured,  awe-struck,  for  she  had  never 
seen  the  great  town. 

Sweet  was  the  breath  of  the  wind  that 
stirred  among  the  olives  on  the  mount  where 
she  stood.  It  had  the  smell  of  heather,  and 
she  could  hear  the  rustle  of  it  among  the 
bracken  on  a  hill  close  by. 

"  Truly,  this  must  be  the  Mount  of  Olives," 
she  whispered,  "  The  Mount  of  which  I  have 
heard  my  father  speak,  and  that  must  be  the 
hill  called  Calvary." 

But  even  as  she  gazed  marvelling,  she 
sighed  with  new  wonder;  for  now  she  saw 
that  the  yellow  stars  were  as  the  twinkling  of 
the  fires  of  the  sun  along  the  crest  of  a  hill 
that  is  set  in  the  east.  There  was  a  living  joy 
in  the  dawntide.  In  her  ears  was  a  sweet 
sound  of  the  bleating  of  ewes  and  lambs. 
From  the  hollows  in  the  shadows  came  the 
swift  singing  rush  of  the  flowing  tide.  Faint 
cries  of  the  herring  gulls  filled  the  air;  from 
the  weedy  boulders  by  the  sea  the  skuas  called 
wailingly. 

Bewildered,  she  stood  intent.     If  only  she 

220 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

could  see  the  footprints  again,  she  thought. 
Whither  should  she  turn,  whither  go?  At 
her  feet  was  a  yellow  flower.  She  stooped  and 
plucked  it. 

"  Tell  me,  O  little  sun-flower,  which  way 
shall  I  be  going?"  and  as  she  spoke  a  small 
golden  bee  flew  up  from  the  heart  of  it,  and 
up  the  hill  to  the  left  of  her.  So  it  is  that 
from  that  day  the  dandelion  is  called  am- 
Bearnan-Brighde. 

Still  she  hesitated.  Then  a  sea-bird  flew  by 
her  with  a  loud  whistling  cry. 

"  Tell  me,  O  eisireiin,"  she  called,  "  which 
way  shall  I  be  going?" 

And  at  this  the  eisireiin  swerved  in  its 
flight,  and  followed  the  golden  bee,  crying, 
"  This  way,  O  Bride,  Bride,  Bride,  Bride, 
Bri-i-i-ide !  " 

So  it  is  that  from  that  day  the  oyster- 
catcher  has  been  called  the  Gille-Brighde,  the 
Servant  of  St    Brigit. 

Then  it  was  that  Bride  said  this  sian : 

Dia  romham; 
Mhoire  am  dheaghuidh ; 
'S  am  Mac  a  thug  Righ  nan  Dul! 
Mis'  air  do  shlios,  a  Dhia, 
Is  Dia  ma'm  luirg. 
Mac'  'oire,  a's  Righ  nan  Dul, 
A  shoillseachadh  gach  ni  dheth  so, 
Le  a  ghras,  mu'm.  choinneamh. 
221 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

God  before  me ; 

The  Virgin  Mary  after  me; 

And  the  Son  sent  by  the  King  of  the  Elements. 

I  am  to  windward  of  thee,  O  God! 

And  God  on  my  footsteps. 

May  the  Son  of  Mary,  King  of  the  Elements, 

Reveal  the  meaning  of  each  of  these  things 

Before  me,  through  His  grace. 

And  as  she  ended  she  saw  before  her  two 
quicken-trees,  of  which  the  boughs  were  inter- 
wrought  so  that  they  made  an  arch.  Deep 
in  the  green  fohage  was  a  white  merle  that 
sang  a  wondrous  sweet  song.  Above  it  the 
small  branches  were  twisted  into  the  shape  of 
a  wreath  or  crown,  lovely  with  the  sunlit 
rowan-clusters,  from  whose  scarlet  berries  red 
drops  as  of  blood  fell. 

Before  her  flew  a  white  dove,  white  as  milk 
become  white  fire.  She  followed,  and  passed 
beneath  the  quicken  arch. 

Fading  sweet  was  the  song  of  the  merle, 
that  was  then  no  more ;  sweet  the  green 
shadow  of  the  rowans,  that  now  grew  straight 
as  young  pines.  Sweet  the  far  song  in  the 
sky,  where  the  white  dove  flew  against  the  sun. 

Bride  looked,  and  her  e5^es  were  glad. 
Homesweet  the  blooming  of  the  heather  on  the 
slopes  of  Dun-I.  lona  lay  green  and  gold, 
isled  in  her  blue  waters.  From  the  shelling 
of  Duvach,  her  father,  rose  a  thin  column  of 

222 


St  Bride  of  the  Isles 

pale  blue  smoke.  The  collies,  seeing  her, 
barked  loudly  with  welcoming  joy. 

The  bleating  of  the  sheep,  the  lowing  of 
the  kye,  the  breath  of  the  salt  wind  from  the 
open  sea  beyond,  the  song  of  the  flowing  tide 
in  the  Sound  beneath :  dear  the  homing. 

With  a  starry  light  in  her  eyes  she  moved 
down  through  the  heather  and  among  the 
green  bracken :  white,  wonderful,  fair  to  see. 


223 


THE  FISHER  OF  MEN 


'But  now  I  have  grown  nothing,  being  all, 
And  the  whole  world  weighs  down  upon  my  heart. 

{Fergus  and  the  Druid.) 


The  Fisher  of  Men 


When  old  Sheen  nic  Leoid  came  back  to 
the  croft,  after  she  had  been  to  the  burn  at  the 
edge  of  the  green  airidh,  where  she  had 
washed  the  claar  that  was  for  the  potatoes  at 
the  peeHng,  she  sat  down  before  the  peats. 

She  was  white  with  years.  The  mountain 
wind  was  chill,  too,  for  all  that  the  sun  had 
shone  throughout  the  midsummer  day.  It  was 
well  to  sit  before  the  peat-fire. 

The  croft  was  on  the  slope  of  a  mountain, 
and  had  the  south  upon  it.  North,  south,  east, 
and  west,  other  great  slopes  reached  upward 
like  hollow  green  waves  frozen  into  silence 
by  the  very  wind  that  curved  them  so,  and 
freaked  their  crests  into  peaks  and  jagged  pin- 
nacles. Stillness  was  in  that  place  for  ever 
and  ever.  What  though  the  Gorromalt  Water 
foamed  down  Ben  Nair,  where  the  croft  was, 
and  made  a  hoarse  voice  for  aye  surrendering 
sound  to  silence?  What  though  at  times  the 
stones  fell  from  the  ridges  of  Ben  Chaisteal 
and  Maolmor,  and  clattered  down  the  barren 
declivities  till  they  were  slung  in  the  tangled 
meshes  of  whin  and  juniper?     What  though 

227 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

on  stormy  dawns  the  eagle  screamed  as  he 
fought  against  the  wind  that  graved  a  thin  Hne 
upon  the  aged  front  of  Ben  Mulad,  where  his 
eyrie  was :  or  that  the  kestrel  cried  above  the 
rabbit-burrows  in  the  strath :  or  that  the  hill- 
fox  barked,  or  that  the  curlew  wailed,  or  that 
the  scattered  sheep  made  an  endless  mournful 
crying?  What  were  these  but  the  ministers 
of  silence? 

There  was  no  blue  smoke  in  the  strath  ex- 
cept from  the  one  turf  cot.  In  the  hidden  val- 
ley beyond  Ben  Nair  there  was  a  hamlet,  and 
nigh  upon  three-score  folk  lived  there;  but 
that  was  over  three  miles  away.  Sheen  Mac- 
leod  was  alone  in  that  solitary  place,  save  for 
her  son  Alasdair  Mor  Og.  "  Young  Alas- 
dair  "  he  was  still, though  the  grey  feet  of  fifty 
years  had  marked  his  hair.  Alasdair  Og  he 
was  while  Alasdair  Ruadh  mac  Chalum  mhic 
Leoid,  that  was  his  father,  lived.  But  when 
Alasdair  Ruadh  changed,  and  Sheen  was  left 
a  mourning  woman,  he  that  was  their  son  was 
Alasdair  Og  still. 

She  had  sore  weariness  that  day.  For  all 
that,  it  was  not  the  weight  of  the  burden  that 
made  her  go  in  and  out  of  the  afternoon  sun, 
and  sit  by  the  red  glow  of  the  peats,  brooding 
deep. 

When,  nigh  upon  an  hour  later,  Alasdair 

228 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

came  up  the  slope,  and  led  the  kye  to  the  byre, 
she  did  not  hear  him :  nor  had  she  sight  of 
him,  when  his  shadow  flickered  in  before  him 
and  lay  along  the  floor. 

"  Poor  old  woman,"  he  said  to  himself, 
bending  his  head  because  of  the  big  height  that 
was  his,  and  he  there  so  heavy  and  strong, 
and  tender,  too,  for  all  the  tangled  black  beard 
and  the  wild  hill-eyes  that  looked  out  under 
bristling  grey-black  eyebrows. 

"  Poor  old  woman,  and  she  with  the  tired 
heart  that  she  has.  Ay,  ay,  for  sure  the  weeks 
lap  up  her  shadow,  as  the  sayin'  is.  She  will 
be  thinkin'  of  him  that  is  gone.  Ay,  or  maybe 
the  old  thoughts  of  her  are  goin'  back  on  their 
own  steps,  down  this  glen  an'  over  that  hill 
an'  away  beyont  that  strath,  an'  this  corrie  an' 
that  moor.  Well,  well,  it  is  a  good  love,  that 
of  the  mother.  Sure  a  bitter  pain  it  will  be  to 
me  when  there's  no  old  grey  hair  there  to 
stroke.  It's  quiet  here,  terrible  quiet,  God 
knows,  to  Himself  be  the  blessin'  for  this  an' 
for  that ;  but  when  she  has  the  white  sleep  at 
last,  then  it'll  be  a  sore  day  for  me,  an'  one 
that  I  will  not  be  able  to  bear  to  hear  the 
sheep  callin',  callin',  callin'  through  the  rain 
on  the  hills  here,  and  Gorromalt  Water  an' 
no  other  voice  to  be  with  me  on  that  day  of 
the  days." 

229 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

She  heard  a  faint  sigh,  and  stirred  a  mo- 
ment, but  did  not  look  round. 

"  Muira'-a-ghraidh,  is  it  tired  you  are,  an' 
this  so  fine  a  time,  too  ?  " 

With  a  quick  gesture,  the  old  woman 
glanced  at  him. 

"  Ah,  child,  is  that  you  indeed?  Well,  I  am 
glad  of  that,  for  I  have  the  trouble  again." 

"  What  trouble,  Muim'  ghaolaiche?  " 

But  the  old  woman  did  not  answer.  Wear- 
ily she  turned  her  face  to  the  peat-glow  again. 

Alasdair  seated  himself  on  the  big  wooden 
chair  to  her  right.  For  a  time  he  stayed  silent 
thus,  staring  into  the  red  heart  of  the  peats. 
What  was  the  gloom  upon  the  old  heart  that 
he  loved?    What  trouble  was  it? 

At  last  he  rose  and  put  meal  and  water  into 
the  iron  pot,  and  stirred  the  porridge  while  it 
seethed  and  sputtered.  Then  he  poured  boil- 
ing water  upon  the  tea  in  the  brown  jenny, 
and  put  the  new  bread  and  the  sweet-milk 
scones  on  the  rude  deal  board  that  was  the 
table. 

"  Come,  dear  tired  old  heart,"  he  said,  "  and 
let  us  give  thanks  to  the  Being." 

"  Blessings  and  thanks,"  she  said,  and 
turned  round. 

Alasdair  poured  out  the  porridge,  and 
watched  the  steam  rise.     Then  he  sat  down, 

230 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

with  a  knife  in  one  hand  and  the  brown-white 
loaf  in  the  other. 

"  O  God/'  he  said,  in  the  low  voice  he  had 
in  the  kirk  when  the  Bread  and  Wine  were 
given — "  O  God,  be  giving  us  now  thy  bless- 
ing, and  have  the  thanks.    And  give  us  peace." 

Peace  there  was  in  the  sorrowful  old  eyes 
of  the  mother.  The  two  ate  in  silence.  The 
big  clock  that  was  by  the  bed  tick-tacked,  tick- 
tacked.  A  faint  sputtering  came  out  of  a  peat 
that  had  bog-gas  in  it.  Shadows  moved  in  the 
silence,  and  met  and  whispered  and  moved 
into  deep,  warm  darkness.     There  was  peace. 

There  was  still  a  red  flush  above  the  hills 
in  the  west  when  the  mother  and  son  sat  in 
the  ingle  again. 

"  What  is  it,  mother-my-heart  ?  "  Alasdair 
asked  at  last,  putting  his  great  red  hand  upon 
the  woman's  knee. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  When 
she  spoke  she  turned  away  her  gaze  again. 

"  Foxes  have  holes,  and  the  fowls  of  the  air 
have  their  places  of  rest,  but  the  Son  of  Man 
hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head." 

"  And  what  then,  dear?  Sure,  it  is  the  deep 
meaning  -you  have  in  that  grey  old  head  that 
I'm  loving  so." 

"  A,  lennav-aghray,  there  is  meaning  to  my 
words.     It  is  old  I  am,  and  the  hour  of  my 

231 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

hours  is  near.  I  heard  a  voice  outside  the 
window  last  night.  It  is  a  voice  I  will  not  be 
hearing,  no,  not  for  seventy  years.  It  was 
cradle-sweet,  it  was." 

She  paused,  and  there  was  silence  for  a 
time. 

"  Well,  dear,"  she  began  again,  wearily,  and 
in  a  low,  weak  voice,  "  it  is  more  tired  and 
more  tired  I  am  every  day  now  this  last 
month.  Two  Sabbaths  ago  I  woke,  and  there 
were  bells  in  the  air:  and  you  are  for  know- 
ing well,  Alasdair,  that  no  kirk-bells  ever 
rang  in  Strath-Nair.  At  edge  o'  dark  on 
Friday,  and  by  the  same  token  the  thirteenth 
day  it  was,  I  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  the 
mools  were  on  my  breast,  and  that  the  roots 
of  the  white  daisies  were  in  the  hollows  where 
the  eyes  were  that  loved  you,  Alasdair,  my 
son." 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  troubled  gaze. 
No  words  would  come.  Of  what  avail  to 
speak  when  there  is  nothing  to  be  said?  God 
sends  the  gloom  upon  the  cloud,  and  there  is 
rain :  God  sends  the  gloom  upon  the  hill,  and 
there  is  mist :  God  sends  the  gloom  upon  the 
sun,  and  there  is  winter.  It  is  God,  too,  sends 
the  gloom  upon  the  soul,  and  there  is  change. 
The  swallow  knows  when  to  lift  up  her  wing 
overagainst  the  shadow  thait  creeps  out  of  the 

232 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

north :  the  wild  swan  knows  when  the  smell 
of  snow  is  behind  the  sun :  the  salmon,  lone  in 
the  brown  pool  among  the  hills,  hears  the  deep 
sea,  and  his  tongue  pants  for  salt,  and  his  fins 
quiver,  and  he  knows  that  his  time  is  come, 
and  that  the  sea  calls.  The  doe  knows  when 
the  fawn  hath  not  yet  quaked  in  her  belly :  is 
not  the  violet  more  deep  in  the  shadowy  dewy 
eyes  ?  The  woman  knows  when  the  babe  hath 
not  yet  stirred  a  little  hand :  is  not  the  wild- 
rose  on  her  cheek  more  often  seen,  and  are 
not  the  shy  tears  moist  on  quiet  hands  in  the 
dusk?  How,  then,  shall  the  soul  not  know 
when  the  change  is  nigh  at  last?  Is  it  a  less 
thing  than  a  reed,  which  sees  the  yellow  birch- 
gold  adrift  on  the  lake,  and  the  gown  of  the 
heather  grow  russet  when  the  purple  has 
passed  into  the  sky,  and  the  white  bog-down 
wave  grey  and  tattered  where  the  loneroid 
grows  dark  and  pungent — which  sees,  and 
knows  that  the  breath  of  the  Death-Weaver 
at  the  Pole  is  fast  faring  along  the  frozen  nor- 
land peaks.  It  is  more  than  a  reed,  it  is  more 
than  a  wild  doe  on  the  hills,  it  is  more  than  a 
swallow  lifting  her  wing  against  the  coming 
of  the  shadow,  it  is  more  than  a  swan  drunken 
with  the  savour  of  the  blue  wine  of  the  waves 
when  the  green  Arctic  lawns  are  white  and 
still.     It  is  more  than  these,  which  has  the 

2ZZ 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

Son  of  God  for  brother,  and  is  clothed 
with  light.  God  doth  not  extinguish  at  the 
dark  tomb  what  he  hath  litten  in  the  dark 
womb. 

Who  shall  say  that  the  soul  knows  not  when 
the  bird  is  aweary  of  the  nest,  and  the  nest  is 
aweary  of  the  wind?  Who  shall  say  that  all 
portents  are  vain  imaginings?  A  whirling 
straw  upon  the  road  is  but  a  whirling  straw: 
yet  the  wind  is  upon  the  cheek  almost  ere  it  is 
gone. 

It  was  not  for  Alasdair  Og,  then,  to  put  a 
word  upon  the  saying  of  the  woman  that  was 
his  mother,  and  was  age-white,  and  could  see 
with  the  seeing  of  old  wise  eyes. 

So  all  that  was  upon  his  lips  was  a  sigh, 
and  the  poor  prayer  that  is  only  a  breath  out 
of  the  heart. 

"  You  will  be  telling  me,  grey  sweetheart," 
he  said  lovingly,  at  last — "  you  will  be  telling 
me  what  was  behind  the  word  that  you  said : 
that  about  the  foxes  that  have  holes  for  the 
hiding,  poor  beasts,  and  the  birdeens  wi'  their 
nests,  though  the  Son  o'  Man  hath  not  where 
to  lay  his  head?  " 

"  Ay,  Alasdair,  my  son  that  I  bore  long  syne 
an'  that  I'm  leaving  soon,  I  will  be  for  telling 
you  that  thing,  an'  now  too,  for  I  am  knowing 
what  is  in  the  dark  this  night  o'  the  nights." 

234 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

Old  Sheen  put  her  head  back  wearily  on  the 
chair,  and  let  her  hands  lie,  long  and  white, 
palm-downward  upon  her  knees.  The  peat- 
glow  warmed  the  dull  grey  that  lurked  under 
her  closed  eyes  and  about  her  mouth,  and  in 
the  furrowed  cheeks.  Alasdair  moved  nearer 
and  took  her  right  hand  in  his,  where  it  lay 
like  a  tired  sheep  between  two  scarped  rocks. 
Gently  he  smoothed  her  hand,  and  wondered 
why  so  frail  and  slight  a  creature  as  this  small 
old  wizened  woman  could  have  mothered  a 
great  swarthy  man  like  himself— he  a  man 
now,  with  his  twoscore  and  ten  years,  and  yet 
but  a  boy  there  at  the  dear  side  of  her. 

"  It  was  this  way,  Alasdair-mochree,"  she 
went  on  in  her  low  thin  voice — like  a  wind- 
worn  leaf,  the  man  that  was  her  son  thought. 
"  It  was  this  way.  I  went  down  to  the  burn 
to  wash  the  claar,  and  when  I  was  there  I  saw 
a  wounded  fawn  in  the  bracken.  The  big  sad 
eyes  of  it  were  like  those  of  Maisie,  poor  lass, 
when  she  had  the  birthing  that  was  her  going- 
call.  I  went  through  the  bracken,  and  down 
by  the  Gorromalt,  and  into  the  Glen  of  The 
Willows. 

"  And  when  I  was  there,  and  standing  by 
the  running  water,  I  saw  a  man  by  the  stream- 
side.  He  was  tall,  but  spare  and  weary :  and 
the  clothes  upon  him   were  poor  and   worn. 

235 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

He  had  sorrow.  When  he  hfted  his  head  at 
me,  I  saw  the  tears.  Dark,  wonderful,  sweet 
eyes  they  were.  His  face  was  pale.  It  was 
not  the  face  of  a  man  of  the  hills.  There 
was  no  red  in  it,  and  the  eyes  looked  in  upon 
themselves.  He  was  a  fair  man,  with  the 
white  hands  that  a  woman  has,  a  woman  like 
the  Bantighearna  of  Glenchaisteal  over  yon- 
der. His  voice,  too,  was  a  voice  like  that:  in 
the  softness,  and  the  sweet,  quiet  sorrow,  I 
am  meaning. 

"  The  word  that  I  gave  him  was  in  the 
English :  for  I  thought  he  was  like  a  man  out 
of  Sasunn,  or  of  the  southlands  somewhere. 
But  he  answered  me  in  the  Gaelic :  sweet,  good 
Gaelic  like  that  of  the  Bioball  over  there,  to 
Himself  be  the  praise. 

"  '  And  is  it  the  way  down  the  Strath  you 
are  seeking,'  I  asked :  '  and  will  you  not  be 
coming  up  to  the  house  yonder,  poor  cot 
though  it  is,  and  have  a  sup  of  milk,  and  a 
rest  if  it's  weary  you  are?' 

"  '  You  are  having  my  thanks  for  that,'  he 
said,  '  and  it  is  as  though  I  had  both  the  good 
rest  and  the  cool  sweet  drink.  But  I  am  fol- 
lowing the  flowing  water  here.' 

"  '  Is  it  for  the  fishing?  '  I  asked. 

"  '  I  am  a  Fisher,'  he  said,  and  the  voice  of 
him  was  low  and  sad. 

236 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

"  He  had  no  hat  on  his  head,  and  the  light 
that  streamed  through  a  rowan-tree  was  in  his 
long  hair.  He  had  the  pity  of  the  poor  in 
his  sorrowful  grey  eyes. 

"  *  And  will  you  not  sleep  with  us  ?  '  I  asked 
again :  '  that  is,  if  you  have  no  place  to  go  to, 
and  are  a  stranger  in  this  country,  as  I  am 
thinking  you  are;  for  I  have  never  had  sight 
of  you  in  the  home-straths  before.' 

"  '  I  am  a  stranger,'  he  said,  '  and  I  have  no 
home,  and  my  father's  house  is  a  great  way 
off.' 

"  *  Do  not  tell  me,  poor  man,'  I  said  gently, 
for  fear  of  the  pain,  '  do  not  tell  me  if  you 
would  fain  not ;  but  it  is  glad  I  will  be  if  you 
will  give  me  the  name  you  have.' 

" '  My  name  is  Mac-an-t'-Saoir,'  he  an- 
swered with  the  quiet  deep  gaze  that  was  his. 
And  with  that  he  bowed  his  head,  and  went 
on  his  way,  brooding  deep. 

"  Well,  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  I  turned, 
and  went  back  through  the  bracken.  A  heavy 
heart,  for  sure,  and  yet,  oh  peace  too,  cool 
dews  of  peace.  And  the  fawn  was  there : 
healed,  Alasdair,  healed,  and  whinny-bleating 
for  its  doe,  that  stood  on  a  rock  wi'  lifted  hoof 
an'  stared  down  the  glen  to  where  the  Fisher 
was. 

"  When  I   was  at  the  burnside,  a  woman 

2^7 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

came  down  the  brae.  She  was  fair  to  see,  but 
the  tears  were  upon  her. 

"  '  Oh,'  she  cried,  '  have  you  seen  a  man 
going  this  way  ?  ' 

"  '  Ay,  for  sure,'  I  answered,  '  but  what  man 
would  he  be  ?  ' 

"  '  He  is  called  Mac-an-t'-Saoir.' 

"  '  Well,  there  are  many  men  that  are  called 
Son  of  the  Carpenter.  What  will  his  own 
name  be  ? ' 

"  '  losa,'  she  said. 

"  And  when  I  looked  at  her,  she  was  weav- 
ing the  wavy  branches  of  a  thorn  near  by,  and 
sobbing  low,  and  it  was  like  a  wreath  or  crown 
that  she  made. 

"  '  And  who  will  you  be,  poor  woman  ? '  I 
asked. 

"  '  O  my  Son,  my  Son,'  she  said,  and  put 
her  apron  over  her  head  and  went  down  into 
the  Glen  of  the  Willows,  she  weeping  sore, 
too,  at  that,  poor  woman. 

"  So  now,  Alasdair,  my  son,  tell  rne  what 
thought  you  have  about  this  thing  that  I  have 
told  you.  For  I  know  well  whom  I  met  on 
the  brae  there,  and  who  the  Fisher  was.  And 
when  I  was  at  the  peats  here  once  more  I  sat 
down,  and  my  mind  sank  into  myself.  And  it 
is  knowing  the  knowledge  I  am." 

"  Well,  well,  dear,  it  is  sore  tired  you  are. 

238 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

Have  rest  now.  But  sure  there  are  many  men 
called  Macintyre." 

"  Ay,  an'  what  Gael  that  you  know  will  be 
for  giving  you  his  surname  like  that." 

Alasdair  had  no  word  for  that.  He  rose  to 
put  some  more  peats  on  the  fire.  When  he 
had  done  this,  he  gave  a  cry. 

The  whiteness  that  was  on  the  mother's 
hair  was  now  in  the  face.  There  was  no 
blood  there,  or  in  the  drawn  lips.  The  light 
in  the  old,  dim  eyes  was  like  water  after 
frost. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his.  Clay-cold  it  was. 
He  let  it  go,  and  it  fell  straight  by  the  chair, 
stiff  as  the  cromak  he  carried  when  he  was 
with  the  sheep. 

"  Oh  my  God  and  my  God,"  he  whispered, 
white  with  the  awe,  and  the  bitter  cruel  pain. 

Then  it  was  that  he  heard  a  knocking  at  the 
door. 

"  Who  is  there?  "  he  cried  hoarsely. 

"  Open,  and  let  me  in."  It  was  a  low,  sweet 
voice,  but  was  that  grey  hour  the  time  for  a 
welcome  ? 

"  Go,  but  go  in  peace,  whoever  you  are. 
There  is  death  here." 

"  Open,  and  let  me  in." 

At  that,  Alasdair,  shaking  like  a  reed  in  the 
wind,  unclasped  the  latch.     A  tall  fair  man, 

239 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

ill-clad  and  weary,  pale,  too,  and  with  dream- 
ing eyes,  came  in. 

"  Beannachd  Dhe  an  Tigh,"  he  said, 
"  God's  blessing  on  this  house,  and  on  all 
here." 

"  The  same  upon  yourself,"  Alasdair  said, 
with  the  weary  pain  in  his  voice.  "  And  who 
will  you  be?  and  forgive  the  asking." 

"  I  am  called  Mac-an-t'-Saoir,  and  losa  is 
the  name  I  bear — Jesus,  the  Son  of  the  Car- 
penter." 

"  It  is  a  good  name.  And  is  it  good  you  are 
seeking  this  night?" 

"  I  am  a  Fisher." 

"  Well,  that's  here  an'  that's  there.  But 
will  you  go  to  the  Strath  over  the  hill,  and 
tell  the  good  man  that  is  there,  the  minister, 
Lachlan  MacLachlan,  that  old  Sheen  nic 
Leoid,  wife  of  Alasdair  Ruadh,  is  dead." 

"  I  know  that,  Alasdair  6g." 

"  And  how  will  you  be  knowing  that,  and 
my  name  too,  you  that  are  called  Macintyre?  " 

"  I  met  the  white  soul  of  Sheen  as  it  went 
down  by  the  Glen  of  the  Willows  a  brief  while 
ago.  She  was  singing  a  glad  song,  she  was. 
She  had  green  youth  in  her  eyes.  And  a  man 
was  holding  her  by  the  hand.  It  was  Alasdair 
Ruadh." 

At  that  Alasdair  fell  on  his  knees.     When 

240 


The  Fisher  of  Men 

he  looked  up  there  was  no  one  there.  Through 
the  darkness  outside  the  door,  he  saw  a  star 
shining  white,  and  leaping  like  a  pulse. 

It  was  three  days  after  that  day  of  shadow 
that  Sheen  Macleod  was  put  under  the  green 
turf. 

On  each  night,  Alasdair  Og  walked  in  the 
Glen  of  the  Willows,  and  there  he  saw  a  man 
fishing, though  ever  afar  off.  Stooping  he  was, 
always,  and  like  a  shadow  at  times.  But  he 
was  the  man  that  was  called  losa  Mac-an-t'- 
Saoir — ^Jesus,  the  Son  of  the  Carpenter. 

And  on  the  night  of  the  earthing  he  saw  the 
Fisher  close  by. 

"  Lord  God,"  he  said,  with  the  hush  on  his 
voice,  and  deep  awe  in  his  wondering  eyes : 
"Lord  God!" 

And  the  Man  looked  at  him. 

"  Night  and  day,  Alasdair  MacAlasdair,"  he 
said,  "  night  and  day  I  fish  in  the  waters  of 
the  world.  And  these  waters  are  the  waters 
of  grief,  and  the  waters  of  sorrow,  and  the 
waters  of  despair.  And  it  is  the  souls  of  the 
living  I  fish  for.  And  lo,  I  say  this  thing  unto 
you,  for  you  shall  not  see  me  again :  Go  in 
peace.  Go  in  peace,  good  soul  of  a  poor  man, 
for  thou  hast  seen  the  Fisher  of  Men." 


241 


THE  LAST  SUPPER 


"...  and  there  shall  be 
fieautiful  things  made  new.  ..." 

{Hyperion.) 


The  Last  Supper 

The  last  time  that  the  Fisher  of  Men  was 
seen  in  Strath-Nair  was  not  of  Alasdair  Mac- 
leod  but  of  the  Httle  child,  Art  Macarthnr,  him 
that  was  born  of  the  woman  Mary  Gilchrist, 
that  had  known  the  sorrow  of  women. 

He  was  a  little  child^  indeed,  when,  because 
of  his  loneliness  and  having  lost  his  way,  he 
lay  sobbing  among  the  bracken  by  the  stream- 
side  in  the  Shadowy  Glen. 

When  he  was  a  man,  and  had  reached  the 
gloaming  of  his  years,  he  was  loved  of  men 
and  women,  for  his  songs  are  many  and  sweet, 
and  his  heart  was  true,  and  he  was  a  good 
man  and  had  no  evil  against  any  one. 

It  is  he  who  saw  the  Fisher  of  Men  when 
he  was  but  a  little  lad :  and  some  say  that  it 
was  on  the  eve  of  the  day  that  Alasdair  Og 
died,  though  of  this  I  know  nothing.  And 
what  he  saw,  and  what  he  heard,  was  a  moon- 
beam that  fell  into  the  dark  sea  of  his  mind, 
and  sank  therein,  and  filled  it  with  light  for 
all  the  days  of  his  life.  A  moonlit  mind  was 
that  of  Art  Macarthur.  He  had  music  always 
in  his  mind.    I  asked  him  once  why  he  heard 

245 


The  Last  Supper 

what  so  few  heard,  but  he  smiled  and  said 
only :  "  When  the  heart  is  full  of  love,  cool 
dews  of  peace  rise  from  it  and  fall  upon  the 
mind:  and  that  is  when  the  song  of  Joy  is 
heard." 

It  must  have  been  because  of  this  shining 
of  his  soul  that  some  who  loved  him  thought 
of  him  as  one  illumined.  His  mind  was  a 
shell  that  held  the  haunting  echo  of  the  deep 
seas :  and  to  know  him  was  to  catch  a  breath 
of  the  infinite  ocean  of  wonder  and  mystery 
and  beauty  of  which  he  was  the  quiet  oracle. 
He  has  peace  now,  where  he  lies  under  the 
heather  upon  a  hillside  far  away :  but  the 
Fisher  of  Men  will  send  him  hitherward 
again,  to  put  a  light  upon  the  wave  and  a 
gleam  upon  the  brown  earth. 

I  will  try  to  tell  this  sgeid  much  as  Art  Mac- 
arthur  told  it  to  me,  though,  as  he  said  him- 
self, not  all  of  it  was  what  he  dreamed  as  a 
child,  for  there  had  come  to  it  in  the  drift  of 
years  new  awakenings  of  memory,  and  new 
interpretations,  as  colour  and  fragrance  come 
to  a  flower. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Often  and  often  it  is  to  me  all  as  a  dream 
that  comes  unawares.  Often  and  often  have 
I  striven  to  see  into  the  green  glens  of  the 
mind  whence  it  comes,  and  whither,  in  a  flash, 

246 


The  Last  Supper 

in  a  rainbow  gleam,  it  vanishes.  When  I  seek 
to  draw  close  to  it,  to  know  whether  it  is  a 
winged  glory  out  of  the  soul,  or  was  indeed  a 
thing  that  happened  to  me  in  my  tender  years, 
lo — it  is  a  dawn  drowned  in  day^  a  star  lost 
in  the  sun^  the  falling  of  dew. 

But  I  will  not  be  forgetting :  no,  never :  no, 
not  till  the  silence  of  the  grass  is  over  my 
eyes :  I  will  not  be  forgetting  that  gloaming. 

Bitter  tears  are  those  that  children  have. 
All  that  we  say  with  vain  words  is  said  by 
them  in  this  welling  spray  of  pain.  I  had  the 
sorrow  that  day.  Strange  hostilities  lurked  in 
the  familiar  bracken.  The  soughing  of  the 
wind  among  the  trees,  the  wash  of  the  brown 
water  by  my  side,  that  had  been  companion- 
able, were  voices  of  awe.  The  quiet  light 
upon  the  grass  flamed. 

The  fierce  people  that  lurked  in  shadow  had 
eyes  for  my  helplessness.  When  the  dark 
came  I  thought  I  should  be  dead,  devoured 
of  I  knew  not  what  wild  creature.  Would 
mother  never  come,  never  come  with  saving 
arms,  with  eyes  like  soft  candles  of  home? 

Then  my  sobs  grew  still,  for  I  heard  a  step. 
With  dread  upon  me,  poor  wee  lad  that  I  was, 
I  looked  to  see  who  came  out  of  the  wilder- 
ness. It  was  a  man,  tall  and  thin  and  worn, 
with  long  hair  hanging  adown  his  face.     Pale 

247 


The  Last  Supper 

he  was  as  a  moonlit  cot  on  the  dark  moor,  and 
his  voice  was  low  and  sweet.  When  I  saw  his 
eyes  I  had  no  fear  upon  me  at  all.  I  saw  the 
mother-look  in  the  grey  shadow  of  them. 

"  And  is  that  you,  Art  lennavan-mo  ?  "  he 
said,  as  he  stooped  and  lifted  me. 

I  had  no  fear.  The  wet  was  out  of  my 
eyes. 

"What  is  it  you  will  be  listening  to  now, 
my  little  lad  ?  "  he  whispered,  as  he  saw  me 
lean,  intent,  hearkening  to  I  know  not  what. 

"Sure,"  I  said,  "I  am  not  for  knowing: 
but  I  thought  I  heard  a  music  away  down 
there  in  the  wood." 

I  heard  it,  for  sure.  It  was  a  wondrous 
sweet  air  as  of  one  playing  the  feada  I  in 
a  dream.  Galium  Dall,  the  piper,  could  give 
no  rarer  music  than  that  was;  and  Galium 
was  a  seventh  son,  and  was  born  in  the 
moonshine. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  this  night  of  the 
nights,  little  Art  ?  "  the  man  asked  me,  with 
his  lips  touching  my  brow  and  giving  me  rest. 

"  That  I  will  indeed  and  indeed,"  I  said. 
And  then  I  fell  asleep. 

When  I  awoke  we  were  in  the  huntsman's 
booth,  that  is  at  the  far  end  of  the  Shadowy 
Glen. 

There  was  a  long  rough-hewn  table  in  it, 

248 


The  Last  Supper 

and  I  stared  when  I  saw  bowls  and  a  great  jug 
of  milk  and  a  plate  heaped  with  oat-cakes,  and 
beside  it  a  brown  loaf  of  rye-bread. 

"  Little  Art,"  said  he  who  carried  me,  "  are 
you  for  knowing  now  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  prince,  I'm  thinking,"  was  the 
shy  word  that  came  to  my  mouth. 

"  Sure,  lennav-aghray,  that  is  so.  It  is 
called  the  Prince  of  Peace  I  am." 

"  And  who  is  to  be  eating  all  this?  "  I  asked. 

"  This  is  the  last  supper,"  the  prince  said, 
so  low  that  I  could  scarce  hear ;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  he  whispered,  "  For  I  die  daily, 
and  ever  ere  I  die  the  Twelve  break  bread 
with  me." 

It  was  then  I  saw  that  there  were  six  bowls 
of  porridge  on  the  one  side  and  six  on  the 
other. 

"  What  is  your  name,  O  prince  ?  " 

"  losa." 

"  And  will  you  have  no  other  name  than 
that?" 

"  I  am  called  losa  mac  Dhe." 

And  is  it  living  in  this  house  you  are?  " 

"  Ay.  But  Art,  my  little  lad,  I  will  kiss 
your  eyes,  and  you  shall  see  who  sup  with  me." 

And  with  that  the  prince  that  was  called 
losa  kissed  me  on  the  eyes,  and  I  saw. 

"  You  will  never  be  quite  blind  again,"  he 

249 


The  Last  Supper 

whispered,  and  that  is  why  all  the  long  years 
of  my  years  I  have  been  glad  in  my  soul. 

What  I  saw  was  a  thing  strange  and  won- 
derful. Twelve  men  sat  at  that  table,  and  all 
had  eyes  of  love  upon  losa.  But  they  were 
not  like  any  men  I  had  ever  seen.  Tall  and 
fair  and  terrible  they  were,  like  morning  in  a 
desert  place ;  all  save  one,  who  was  dark,  and 
had  a  shadow  upon  him  and  in  his  wild  eyes. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  each  was  clad  in  ra- 
diant mist.  The  eyes  of  them  were  as  stars 
through  that  mist. 

And  each,  before  he  broke  bread,  or  put 
spoon  to  the  porridge  that  was  in  the  bowl 
before  him,  laid  down  upon  the  table  three 
shuttles. 

Long  I  looked  upon  that  companv,  but  losa 
held  me  in  his  arms,  and  I  had  no  fear. 

"  Who  are  these  men  ?  "  he  asked  me. 

"  The  Sons  of  God,"  I  said,  I  not  knowing 
what  I  said,  for  it  was  but  a  child  I  was. 

He  smiled  at  that.  "  Behold,"  he  spoke  to 
the  twelve  men  who  sat  at  the  table,  "  behold 
the  little  one  is  wiser  than  the  wisest  of  ye." 
At  that  all  smiled  with  the  gladness  and  the 
joy,  save  one ;  him  that  was  in  the  shadow. 
He  looked  at  me,  and  I  remembered  two  black 
lonely  tarns  upon  the  hillside,  black  with  the 
terror  because  of  the  kelpie  and  the  drowner. 

250 


The  Last  Supper 

"  Who  are  these  men  ?  "  I  whispered,  with 
the  tremor  on  me  that  was  come  of  the  awe 
I  had. 

"  They  are  the  Twelve  Weavers,  Art,  my 
Httle  child." 

"  And  what  is  their  weaving?  " 

"  They  weave  for  my  Father,  whose  web  I 
am. 

At  that  I  looked  upon  the  prince,  but  I  could 
see  no  web. 

"  Are  you  not  losa  the  Prince  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  Web  of  Life,  Art  lennavan-mo." 

"  And  what  are  the  three  shuttles  that  are 
beside  each  Weaver?" 

I  know  now  that  when  I  turned  my  child's- 
eyes  upon  these  shuttles  I  saw  that  they  were 
alive  and  wonderful,  and  never  the  same  to 
the  seeing. 

"  They  are  called  Beauty  and  Wonder  and 
Mystery." 

And  with  that  losa  mac  Dhe  sat  down  and 
talked  with  the  Twelve.  All  were  passing 
fair,  save  him  who  looked  sidelong  out  of  dark 
eyes.  I  thought  each,  as  I  looked  at  him, 
more  beautiful  than  any  of  his  fellows ;  but 
most  I  loved  to  look  at  the  twain  who  sat  on 
either  side  of  losa. 

"  He  will  be  a  Dreamer  among  men,"  said 
the  prince ;  "  so  tell  him  who  ye  are." 

251 


The  Last  Supper 

Then  he  who  was  on  the  right  turned  his 
eyes  upon  me.  I  leaned  to  him,  laughing  low 
with  the  glad  pleasure  I  had  because  of  his 
eyes  and  shining  hair,  and  the  flame  as  of  the 
blue  sky  that  was  his  robe. 

"  I  am  the  Weaver  of  Joy,"  he  said.  And 
with  that  he  took  his  three  shuttles  that  were 
called  Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mystery,  and 
he  wove  an  immortal  shape,  and  it  went  forth 
of  the  room  and  out  into  the  green  world, 
singing  a  rapturous  sweet  song. 

Then  he  that  was  upon  the  left  of  losa  the 
Life  looked  at  me,  and  my  heart  leaped.  He, 
too,  had  shining  hair,  but  I  could  not  tell  the 
colour  of  his  e3'es  for  the  glory  that  was  in 
them.  "  I  am  the  Weaver  of  Love,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  sit  next  the  heart  of  losa."  And  with 
that  he  took  his  three  shuttles  that  were  called 
Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mystery  and  he  wove 
an  immortal  shape,  and  it  went  forth  of  the 
room  and  into  the  green  world  singing  a  rap- 
turous sweet  song. 

Even  then,  child  as  I  was,  I  wished  to  look 
on  no  other.  None  could  be  so  passing  fair, 
I  thought,  as  the  Weaver  of  Joy  and  the 
Weaver  of  Love. 

But  a  wondrous  sweet  voice  sang  in  my 
ears,  and  a  cool,  soft  hand  laid  itself  upon  my 
head,  and  the  beautiful  lordly  one  who  had 

252 


The  Last  Supper 

spoken  said,  "  I  am  the  Weaver  of  Death," 
and  the  lovely  whispering  one  who  had  lulled 
me  with  rest  said,  "  I  am  the  Weaver  of 
Sleep."  And  each  wove  with  the  shuttles  of 
Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mystery,  and  I  knew 
not  which  was  the  more  fair,  and  Death 
seemed  to  me  as  Love,  and  in  the  eyes  of 
Dream  I  saw  Joy. 

My  gaze  was  still  upon  the  fair  wonderful 
shapes  that  went  forth  from  these  twain — 
from  the  Weaver  of  Sleep,  an  immortal  shape 
of  star-eyed  Silence,  and  from  the  Weaver  of 
Death  a  lovely  Dusk  with  a  heart  of  hidden 
flame — when  I  heard  the  voice  of  two  others 
of  the  Twelve.  They  were  like  the  laughter  of 
the  wind  in  the  corn,  and  like  the  golden  fire 
upon  that  corn.  And  the  one  said,  "  I  am  the 
Weaver  of  Passion,"  and  when  he  spoke  I 
thought  that  he  was  both  Love  and  Joy,  and 
Death  and  Life,  and  I  put  out  my  hands.  "  It 
is  Strength  I  give,"  he  said,  and  he  took  and 
kissed  me.  Then,  while  losa  took  me  again 
upon  his  knee,  I  saw  the  Weaver  of  Passion 
turn  to  the  white  glory  beside  him.  him  that 
losa  whispered  to  me  was  the  secret  of  the 
world,  and  that  was  called  "  The  Weaver  of 
Youth."  I  know  not  whence  nor  how  it  came, 
but  there  was  a  singing  of  skiey  birds  when 
these  twain  took  the  shuttles  of  Beauty  and 

253 


The  Last  Supper 

Wonder  and  Mystery,  and  wove  each  an  im- 
tnortal  shape,  and  bade  it  go  forth  out  of  the 
room  into  the  green  world,  to  sing  there  for 
ever  and  ever  in  the  ears  of  man  a  rapturous 
sweet  song. 

"  O  losa,"  I  cried,  "  are  these  all  thy  breth- 
ren? for  each  is  fair  as  thee,  and  all  have  lit 
their  eyes  at  the  white  fire  I  see  now  in  thy 
heart." 

But,  before  he  spake,  the  room  was  filled 
with  music.  I  trembled  with  the  joy,  and  in 
my  ears  it  has  lingered  ever,  nor  shall  ever  go. 
Then  I  saw  that  it  was  the  breathing  of  the 
Seventh  and  eighth,  of  the  ninth  and  the  tenth 
of  those  star-eyed  ministers  of  losa  whom  he 
tailed  the  Twelve :  and  the  names  of  them 
were  the  Weaver  of  Laughter,  the  Weaver  of 
Tears,  the  W'eaver  of  Prayer,  and  the  Weaver 
of  Peace.  Each  rose  and  kissed  me  there. 
"  We  shall  be  with  you  to  the  end,  little  Art," 
they  said :  and  I  took  hold  of  the  hand  of  one, 
and  cried,  "  O  beautiful  one,  be  likewise  with 
the  woman  my  mother,"  and  there  came  back 
to  me  the  whisper  of  the  Weaver  of  Tears :  "  I 
will,  unto  the  end." 

Then,  wonderingly,  I  watched  him  likewise 
take  the  shuttles  that  were  ever  the  same  and 
yet  never  the  same,  and  weave  an  immortal 
shape.     And  when  this  Soul  of  Tears  went 

254 


The  Last  Supper 

forth  of  the  room,  I  thought  it  was  my  moth- 
er's voice  singing  that  rapturous  sweet  song, 
and  I  cried  out  to  it. 

The  fair  immortal  turned  and  waved  to  me. 
"  I  shall  never  be  far  from  thee,  little  Art,"  it 
sighed,  like  summer  rain  falling  on  leaves : 
"  but  I  go  now  to  my  home  in  the  heart  of 
women." 

There  were  now  but  two  out  of  the  Twelve. 
Oh  the  gladness  and  the  joy  when  I  looked 
at  him  who  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of 
losa  that  was  the  Life!  He  lifted  the  three 
shuttles  of  Beauty  and  Wonder  and  Mystery, 
and  he  wove  a  Mist  of  Rainbows  in  that  room ; 
and  in  the  glory  I  saw  that  even  the  dark 
twelfth  one  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  smiled. 

"  O  what  will  the  name  of  you  be  ?  "  I  cried, 
straining  my  arms  to  the  beautiful  lordly  one. 
But  he  did  not  hear,  for  he  wrought  Rainbow 
after  Rainbow  out  of  the  mist  of  glory  that  he 
made,  and  sent  each  out  into  the  green  world, 
to  be  for  ever  before  the  eyes  of  men. 

"  He  is  the  Weaver  of  Hope,"  whispered 
losa  mac  Dhe ;  "  and  he  is  the  soul  of  each 
that  is  here." 

Then  I  turned  to  the  twelfth,  and  said 
"  Who  art  thou,  O  lordly  one  with  the  shadow 
in  the  eyes." 

But  he  answered  not,  and  there  was  silence 

255 


The  Last  Supper 

In  the  room.  And  all  there,  from  the  Weaver 
of  Joy  to  the  Weaver  of  Peace,  looked  down, 
and  said  nought.  Only  the  Weaver  of  Hope 
wrought  a  rainbow,  and  it  drifted  into  the 
heart  of  the  lonely  Weaver  that  was  twelfth. 

"And  who  will  this  man  be,  O  losa  mac 
Dhe?"  I  whispered. 

"  Answer  the  little  child,"  said  losa,  and  his 
voice  was  sad. 

Then  the  Weaver  answered: 

"  I  am  the  W^eaver  of  Glory ,"  he  be- 
gan, but  losa  looked  at  him,  and  he  said  no 
more. 

"  Art,  little  lad,"  said  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
"  he  is  the  one  who  betrayeth  me  for  ever. 
He  is  Judas,  the  Weaver  of  Fear." 

And  at  that  the  sorrowful  shadow-eyed  man 
that  was  the  twelfth  took  up  the  three  shuttles 
that  were  before  him. 

"  And  what  are  these,  O  Judas  ?  "  I  cried 
eagerly,  for  I  saw  that  they  were  black. 

WMien  he  answered  not,  one  of  the  Twelve 
leaned  forward  and  looked  at  him.  It  was 
the  Weaver  of  Death  who  did  this  thing. 

"  The  three  shuttles  of  Judas  the  Fear- 
Weaver,  O  little  Art,"  said  the  Weaver  of 
Death,  "  are  called  Mystery,  and  Despair,  and 
the  Grave." 

And  with  that  Judas  rose  and  left  the  room. 

256 


The  Last  Supper 

But  the  shape  that  he  had  woven  went  forth 
with  him  as  his  shadow :  and  each  fared  out 
into  the  dim  world,  and  the  Shadow  entered 
into  the  minds  and  into  the  hearts  of  men, 
and  betrayed  losa  that  was  the  Prince  of 
Peace. 

Thereupon,  losa  rose  and  took  me  by  the 
hand,  and  led  me  out  of  that  room.  When, 
once,  I  looked  back  I  saw  none  of  the  Twelve 
save  only  the  Weaver  of  Hope,  and  he  sat 
singing  a  wild  sweet  song  that  he  had  learned 
of  the  Weaver  of  Joy,  sat  singing  amid  a  mist 
of  rainbows  and  weaving  a  radiant  glory  that 
was  dazzling  as  the  sun. 

And  at  that  I  woke,  and  was  against  my 
mother's  heart,  and  she  with  the  tears  upon 
me,  and  her  lips  moving  in  a  prayer. 


257 


THE   DARK   NAMELESS 
ONE 


The  Dark  Nameless 
One 


One  day  this  summer  I  sailed  with  Padruig 
Macrae  and  Ivor  McLean,  boatmen  of  lona, 
along  the  south-western  reach  of  the  Ross  of 
Mull. 

The  whole  coast  of  the  Ross  is  indescribably 
wild  and  desolate.  From  Feenafort  (Fhionn- 
phort),  opposite  Balliemore  of  Icolmkill,  to 
the  hamlet  of  Earraid  Lighthouse,  it  were 
hardly  exaggeration  to  say  that  the  whole  tract 
is  uninhabited  by  man  and  unenlivened  by  any 
, green  thing.  It  is  the  haunt  of  the  cormorant 
and  the  seal. 

No  one  who  has  not  visited  this  region  can 
realize  its  barrenness.  Its  one  beauty  is  the 
faint  bloom  which  lies  upon  it  in  the  sunlight 
— a  bloom  which  becomes  as  the  glow  of  an 
inner  flame  when  the  sun  westers  without 
cloud  or  mist.  This  is  from  the  ruddy  hue 
of  the  granite,  of  which  all  that  wilderness  is 
wrought. 

It  is  a  land  tortured  by  the  sea,  scourged  by 
the  sea-wind.    A  myriad  lochs,  fiords,  inlets, 

261 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

passages,  serrate  its  broken  frontiers.  In- 
numerable islets  and  reefs,  fanged  like  raven- 
ous wolves,  sentinel  every  shallow,  lurk  in 
every  strait.  He  must  be  a  skilled  boat- 
man who  would  take  the  Sound  of  Ear- 
raid  and  penetrate  the  reaches  of  the 
Ross. 

There  are  many  days  in  the  months  of 
peace,  as  the  islanders  call  the  period  from 
Easter  till  the  autumnal  equinox,  when  Ear- 
raid  and  the  rest  of  Ross  seem  under  a  spell. 
It  is  the  spell  of  beauty.  Then  the  yellow  light 
of  the  sun  is  upon  the  tumbled  masses  and 
precipitous  shelves  and  ledges,  ruddy  petals  or 
leaves  of  that  vast  Flower  of  Granite.  Across 
it  the  cloud  shadows  trail  their  purple  phan- 
toms, their  scythe-sweep  curves,  and  abrupt 
evanishing  floodings  of  warm  dusk.  From 
wet  boulder  to  boulder,  from  crag  to  shelly 
crag,  from  fissure  to  fissure,  the  sea  cease- 
lessly weaves  a  girdle  of  foam.  When  the 
wide  luminous  stretch  of  waters  beyond — 
green  near  the  land,  and  farther  out  all  of  a 
living  blue,  interspersed  with  wide  alleys  of 
amethyst — is  white  with  the  sea-horses,  there 
is  such  a  laughter  of  surge  and  splash  all  the 
way  from  Slugan-dubh  to  the  Rudha-nam- 
Maol-Mora,  or  to  the  tide-swept  promontory 
of   the  Sgeireig-a'-Bhochdaidh,  that,   looking 

262 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

inland,  one  sees  through  a  rainbow-shimmer- 
ing veil  of  ever-flying  spray. 

But  the  sun  spell  is  even  more  fugitive  upon 
the  face  of  this  wild  land  than  the  spell  of 
beauty  upon  a  woman.  So  runs  one  of  our 
proverbs:  as  the  falling  of  the  wave,  as  the 
fading  of  the  leaf,  so  is  the  beauty  of  a  wo- 
man, unless — ah,  that  unless,  and  the  indiscov- 
erable  fount  of  joy  that  can  only  be  come 
upon  by  hazard  once  in  life,  and  thereafter 
only  in  dreams,  and  the  Land  of  the  Rainbow 
that  is  never  reached,  and  the  green  sea-doors 
of  Tir-na-thonn,  that  open  now  no  more  to  any 
wandering  wave ! 

It  was  from  Padruig,  on  that  day,  I  heard 
the  strange  tale  of  his  kinsman  Murdoch,  the 
tale  of  "  The  Judgment  o*  God  "  that  I  have 
told  elsewhere.  It  was  Padruig,  too,  who  told 
me  of  the  Sea-witch  of  Earraid. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  heard  of  the  each- 
uisgc  (the  sea-beast,  sea-kelpie,  or  water- 
horse),  but  I  have  never  seen  it  with  the  eyes. 
My  father  and  my  brother  knew  of  it.  But 
this  thing  I  know,  and  this  what  we  call  an- 
cailleach-uisge  (the  siren  or  water-witch)  ;  the 
cailliach,  mind  you,  not  the  maighdeannmhara 
(the  mermaid),  who  means  no  harm.  May 
she  hear  my  saying  it !  The  cailliach  is  old 
and  clad  in  weeds,  but  her  voice  is  young,  and 

263 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

she  always  sits  so  that  the  Hght  is  in  the  eyes 
of  the  beholder.  She  seems  to  him  young 
also,  and  fair.  She  has  two  familiars  in  the 
form  of  seals,  one  black  as  the  grave,  and 
the  other  white  as  the  shroud  that  is  in  the 
grave;  and  these  sometimes  upset  a  boat,  if 
the  sailor  laughs  at  the  song  of  the  water- 
witch. 

"  A  man  netted  one  of  those  seals,  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ago,  with  his  herring- 
trawl,  and  dragged  it  into  the  boat ;  but  the 
other  seal  tore  at  the  net  so  savagely,  with  its 
head  and  paws  over  the  bows,  that  it  was 
clear  no  net  would  long  avail.  The  man  heard 
them  crying  and  screaming,  and  then  talking 
low  and  muttering,  like  women  in  a  frenzy. 
In  his  fear  he  cast  the  nets  adrift,  all  but  a 
small  portion  that  was  caught  in  the  thwarts. 
Afterwards,  in  this  portion,  he  found  a  tress 
of  woman's  hair.  And  that  is  just  so :  to  the 
Stones  be  it  said. 

"  The  grandson  of  this  man,  Tomais  Mc- 
Nair,  is  still  living,  a  shepherd  on  Eilean- 
Uamhain,  beyond  Lunga  in  the  Cairnburg 
Isles.  A  few  years  ago,  ofif  Callachan  Point, 
he  saw  the  two  seals,  and  heard,  though  he 
did  not  see,  the  cailliach.  And  that  which  I 
tell  you — Christ's  Cross  before  me — is  a  true 
thing." 

264 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

All  the  time  that  Padruig  was  speaking,  I 
saw  that  Ivor  McLean  looked  away :  either  as 
though  he  heard  nothing,  or  did  not  wish  to 
hear.  There  was  dream  in  his  eyes ;  I  saw 
that,  so  said  nothing  for  a  time. 

"  What  is  it,  Ivor?  "  I  asked  at  last,  in  a  low 
voice.    He  started,  and  looked  at  me  strangely. 

"  What  will  you  be  asking  that  for?  What 
are  you  doing  in  my  mind,  that  is  secret?" 

"  I  see  that  you  are  brooding  over  some- 
thing.    Will  you  not  tell  me?" 

"  Tell  her,"  said  Padruig  quietly. 

But  Ivor  kept  silent.  There  was  a  look  in 
his  eyes  which  I  understood.  Thereafter  we 
sailed  on,  with  no  word  in  the  boat  at  all. 

That  night,  a  dark,  rainy  night  it  was,  with 
an  uplift  wind  beating  high  overagainst  the 
hidden  moon,  I  went  to  the  cottage  where  Ivor 
McLean  lived  with  his  old  deaf  mother,  deaf 
nigh  upon  twenty  years,  ever  since  the  night 
of  the  nights  when  she  heard  the  women  whis- 
per that  Galium,  her  husband,  was  among  the 
drowned,  after  a  death-wind  had  blown. 

When  I  entered,  he  was  sitting  before  the 
flaming  coal-fire;  for  on  lona  now,  by  decree 
of  MacCailin  Mor,  there  is  no  more  peat 
burned. 

"You  will  tell  me  now,  Ivor?"  was  all  I 
said. 

265 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

"  Yes ;  I  will  be  telling  you  now.  And  the 
reason  why  I  did  not  tell  you  before  was  be- 
cause it  is  not  a  wise  or  a  good  thing  to  tell 
ancient  stories  about  the  sea  while  still  on 
the  running  wave.  Macrae  should  not  have 
done  that  thing.  It  may  be  we  shall  sufifer 
for  it  when  next  we  go  out  with  the  nets. 
We  were  to  go  to-night;  but  no,  not  I,  no, 
no,  for  sure,  not  for  all  the  herring  in  the 
Sound." 

"  Is  it  an  ancient  sgeiil,  Ivor?  " 

"  Ay.  I  am  not  for  knowing  the  age  of 
these  things.  It  may  be  as  old  as  the  days  of 
the  Feinn  for  all  I  know.  It  has  come  down 
to  us.  Alasdair  MacAlasdair  of  Tiree,  him 
that  used  to  boast  of  having  all  the  stories  of 
Colum  and  Brighde,  it  was  he  told  it  to  the 
mother  of  my  mother,  and  she  to  me." 

"What  is  it  called?" 

"  Well,  this  and  that ;  but  there  is  no  harm  in 
saying  it  is  called  the  Dark  Nameless  One." 

"  The  Dark  Nameless  One !  " 

"  It  is  this  way.  But  will  you  ever  have 
been  hearing  of  the  MacOdrums  of  Uist?" 

"Ay:  the  Sliochd-nan-ron." 

"  That  is  so.  God  knows.  The  Sliochd- 
nan-ron  .  .  .  the  progeny  of  the  Seal.  .  .  . 
Well,  well,  no  man  knows  what  moves  in  the 
shadow  of  life.    And  now  I  will  be  telling  you 

266 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

that  old  ancient  tale,  as  it  was  given  to  me  by 
the  mother  of  my  mother. 

On  a  day  of  the  days,  Colum  was  walking 
alone  by  the  sea-shore.  The  monks  were  at 
the  hoe  or  the  spade,  and  some  milking  the 
kye,  and  some  at  the  fishing.  They  say  it  was 
on  the  first  day  of  the  Faoilleach  Geamhraidh, 
the  day  that  is  called  Am  fheill  Brighde. 

The  holy  man  had  wandered  on  to  where 
the  rocks  are,  opposite  to  Soa.  He  was  pray- 
ing and  praying,  and  it  is  said  that  whenever 
he  prayed  aloud,  the  barren  egg  in  the  nest 
would  quicken,  and  the  blighted  bud  enfold, 
and  the  butterfly  cleave  its  shroud. 

Of  a  sudden  he  came  upon  a  great  black  seal, 
lying  silent  on  the  rocks,  with  wicked  eyes. 

"  My  blessing  upon  you,  O  Ron,"  he  said 
with  the  good  kind  courteousness  that  was  his. 

"  Droch  spadadh  ort,"  answered  the  seal, 
"  A  bad  end  to  you,  Colum  of  the  Gown." 

*'  Sure,  now,"  said  Colum  angrily,  "  I  am 
knowing  by  that  curse  that  you  are  no  friend 
of  Christ,  but  of  the  evil  pagan  faith  out  of 
the  north.  For  here  I  am  known  ever  as 
Colum  the  White,  or  as  Colum  the  Saint ;  and 
it  is  only  the  Picts  and  the  wanton  Normen 
who  deride  me  because  of  the  holy  white  robe 
I  wear." 

267 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

"  Well,  well,"  replied  the  seal,  speaking  the 
good  Gaelic  as  though  it  were  the  tongue  of 
the  deep  sea,  as  God  knows  it  may  be  for  all 
you,  I,  or  the  blind  wind  can  say ;  "  Well,  well, 
let  that  thing  be :  it's  a  wave-way  here  or  a 
wave-way  there.  But  now  if  it  is  a  Druid 
you  are,  whether  of  Fire  or  of  Christ,  be  tell- 
ing me  where  my  woman  is,  and  where  my 
little  daughter." 

At  this,  Colum  looked  at  him  for  a  long 
while.     Then  he  knew. 

"  It  is  a  man  you  were  once,  O  Ron  ?  " 

"  Maybe  ay  and  maybe  no." 

"  And  with  that  thick  Gaelic  that  you  have, 
it  will  be  out  of  the  north  isles  you  come  ?  " 

"  That  is  a  true  thing." 

"  Now  I  am  for  knowing  at  last  who  and 
what  you  are.  You  are  one  of  the  race  of 
Odrum  the  Pagan." 

"  W'ell,  I  am  not  denying  it,  Colum.  And 
what  is  more,  I  am  Angus  MacOdrum, 
Aonghas  mac  Torcall  mhic  Odrum,  and  the 
name  I  am  known  by  is  Black  Angus." 

"  A  fitting  name  too,"  said  Colum  the  Holy, 
"  because  of  the  black  sin  in  your  heart,  and 
the  black  end  God  has  in  store  for  you." 

At  that  Black  Angus  laughed. 

"  Why  is  there  laughter  upon  you,  Man- 
Seal?" 

268 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

"  Well,  it  is  because  of  the  good  company 
I'll  be  having.  But,  now,  give  me  the  word: 
Are  you  for  having  seen  or  heard  aught  of  a 
woman  called  Kirsteen  McVurich  ?  " 

"  Kirsteen  —  Kirsteen  —  that  is  the  good 
name  of  a  nun  it  is,  and  no  sea-wanton !  " 

"  Oh,  a  name  here  or  a  name  there  is  soft 
sand.  And  so  you  cannot  be  for  telling  me 
where  my  woman  is  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  a  stake  for  your  belly,  and  the  nails 
through  your  hands,  thirst  on  your  tongue, 
and  the  corbies  at  your  eyne !  " 

And,  with  that,  Black  Angus  louped  into 
the  green  water,  and  the  hoarse  wild  laugh 
of  him  sprang  into  the  air  and  fell  dead 
against  the  cliff  like  a  wind-spent  mew. 

Colum  went  slowly  back  to  the  brethren, 
brooding  deep.  "  God  is  good,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice,  again  and  again ;  and  each  time 
that  he  spoke  there  came  a  fair  sweet  daisy 
into  the  grass,  or  a  yellow  bird  rose  up,  with 
song  to  it  for  the  first  time  wonderful  and 
sweet  to  hear. 

As  he  drew  near  to  the  House  of  God  he 
met  Murtagh,  an  old  monk  of  the  ancient  old 
race  of  the  isles. 

"  Who  is  Kirsteen  McVurich,  Murtagh?  " 
he  asked. 

269 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

"  She  was  a  good  servant  of  Christ,  she 
was,  in  the  south  isles,  O  Colum,  till  Black 
Angus  won  her  to  the  sea." 

"  And  when  was  that  ?  " 

"  Nigh  upon  a  thousand  years  ago." 

At  that  Colum  stared  in  amaze.  But  Mur- 
tagh  was  a  man  of  truth,  nor  did  he  speak  in 
allegories.  "  Ay,  Colum,  my  father,  nigh  upon 
a  thousand  years  ago." 

"  But  can  mortal  sin  live  as  long  as  that?  " 

"Ay,  it  endureth.  Long,  long  ago,  before 
Oisin  sang,  before  Fionn,  before  Cuchullin 
was  a  glorious  great  prince,  and  in  the  days 
when  the  Tuatha-De  Danann  were  sole  lords 
in  all  green  Banba,  Black  Angus  made  the 
woman  Kirsteen  McVurich  leave  the  place  of 
prayer  and  go  down  to  the  sea-shore,  and 
there  he  leaped  upon  her  and  made  her  his 
prey,  and  she  followed  him  into  the  sea." 

"  And  is  death  above  her  now  ?  " 

"  No.  She  is  the  woman  that  weaves  the 
sea-spells  at  the  wild  place  out  yonder  that  is 
known  as  Earraid :  she  that  is  called  an-Caill- 
eoch-nisge,  the  sea-witch." 

"  Then  why  was  Black  Angus  for  the  seek- 
ing her  here  and  the  seeking  her  there?  " 

"  It  is  the  Doom.  It  is  Adam's  first  wife 
she  is,  that  sea-witch  over  there,  where  the 
foam  is  ever  in  the  sharp  fangs  of  the  rocks." 

270 


The  Dark  Nameless  One 

"And  who  will  he  be?" 

"  His  body  is  the  body  of  Angus  the  son 
of  Torcall  of  the  race  of  Odrum,  for  all  that 
a  seal  he  is  to  the  seeming;  but  the  soul  of 
him  is  Judas." 

"Black  Judas,  Murtagh?" 

"Ay,  Black  Judas,  Colum." 

But  with  that,  Ivor  McLean  rose  abruptly 
from  before  the  fire,  saying  that  he  would 
speak  no  more  that  night.  And  truly 
enough  there  was  a  wild,  lone,  desolate  cry  in 
the  wind,  and  a  slapping  of  the  waves  one 
upon  the  other  with  an  eerie  laughing  sound, 
and  the  screaming  of  a  sea-mew  that  was  like 
a  human  thing. 

So  I  touched  the  shawl  of  his  mother,  who 
looked  up  v.'ith  startled  eyes  and  said,  "  God 
be  with  us  " ;  and  then  I  opened  the  door,  and 
the  salt  smell  of  the  wrack  was  in  my  nostrils, 
and  the  great  drowning  blackness  of  the 
night. 


271 


THE  THREE  MARVELS 
OF   HY 


I.   THE    FESTIVAL    OF   THE    BIRDS 
II.   THE  SABBATH   OF  THE  FISHES  AND  THE 

FLIES 
III.    THE    MOON-CHILD 


The  Three  Marvels 
of  Hy 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  THE  BIRDS 

Before  dawn,  on  the  morning  of  the  hun- 
dredth Sabbath  after  Colum  the  White  had 
made  glory  to  God  in  Hy,  that  was  thereto- 
fore called  loua  and  thereafter  I-shona  and 
is  now  lona,  the  Saint  beheld  his  own  Sleep 
in  a  vision. 

Much  fasting  and  long  pondering  over  the 
missals,  with  their  golden  and  azure  and 
sea-green  initials  and  earth-brown  branching 
letters,  had  made  Colum  weary.  He  had 
brooded  much  of  late  upon  the  mystery  of 
the  living  world  that  was  not  man's  world. 

On  the  eve  of  that  hundredth  Sabbath, 
which  was  to  be  a  holy  festival  in  lona,  he 
had  talked  long  with  an  ancient  greybeard  out 
of  a  remote  isle  in  the  north,  the  wild  Isle  of 
the    Mountains,    where    Scathach    the    Queen 

275 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

hanged  the  men  of  Lochlin  by  their  yellow 
hair. 

This  man's  name  was  Ardan,  and  he  was 
of  the  ancient  people.  He  had  come  to  Hy 
because  of  two  things.  Maolmor,  the  King 
of  the  northern  Picts,  had  sent  him  to  learn 
of  Colum  what  was  this  god-teaching  he  had 
brought  out  of  Eire :  and  for  himself  he  had 
come,  with  his  age  upon  him,  to  see  what 
manner  of  man  this  Colum  was,  who  had 
made  loua,  that  was  "  Innis-nan-Dhruidh- 
neach  " — the  Isle  of  the  Druids — into  a  place 
of  new  worship. 

For  three  hours  Ardan  and  Colum  had 
walked  by  the  sea-shore.  Each  learned  of 
the  other.  Ardan  bowed  his  head  before  the 
wisdom.  Colum  knew  in  his  heart  that  the 
Druid  saw  mysteries. 

In  the  first  hour  they  talked  of  God. 
Colum  spake,  and  Ardan  smiled  in  his 
shadowy  eyes.  "  It  is  for  the  knowing,"  he 
said,  when  Colum  ceased. 

"  Ay,  sure,"  said  the  Saint :  "  and  now,  O 
Ardan  the  wise,  is  my  God  thy  God?  " 

But  at  that  Ardan  smiled  not.  He  turned 
his  eyes  to  the  west.  With  his  right  hand 
he  pointed  to  the  Sun  that  was  like  a  great 
golden  flower.  "  Truly,  He  is  thy  God  and 
my  God."     Colum  was  silent.     Then  he  said: 

276 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

"  Thee  and  thine,  O  Ardan,  from  Maohnor 
the  Pictish  king  to  the  least  of  thy  slaves, 
shall  have  a  long  weariness  in  Hell.  That 
fiery  globe  yonder  is  but  the  Lamp  of  the 
World:  and  sad  is  the  case  of  the  man  who 
knows  not  the  torch  from  the  torch-bearer." 

And  in  the  second  hour  they  talked  of 
Man.  Ardan  spake,  and  Colum  smiled  in  his 
deep,  grey  eyes. 

"  It  is  for  laughter  that,"  he  said,  when 
Ardan  ceased. 

"  And  why  wall  that  be,  O  Colum  of 
Eire?"  said  Ardan.  Then  the  smile  went 
out  of  Colum's  grey  eyes,  and  he  turned  and 
looked  about  him. 

He  beheld,  near,  a  crow,  a  horse,  and  a 
hound. 

"  These  are  thy  brethren,"  he  said  scorn- 
fully. 

But  Ardan  answered  quietly,  "  Even  so." 

The  third  hour  they  talked  about  the  beasts 
of  the  earth  and  the  fowls  of  the  air. 

At  the  last  Ardan  said :  "  The  ancient  wis- 
dom hath  it  that  these  are  the  souls  of  men 
and  women  that  have  been,  or  are  to  be." 

Whereat  Colum  answered :  "  The  new  wis- 
dom, that  is  old  as  eternity,  declareth  that 
God  created  all  things  in  love.  Therefore 
are  we  at  one,  O  Ardan,  though  we  sail  to 

277 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

the  Isle  of  Truth  from  the  West  and  the  East. 
Let  there  be  peace  between  us." 

"  Peace,"  said  Ardan. 

That  eve,  Ardan  of  the  Picts  sat  with  the 
monks  of  lona.  Coktm  blessed  him  and  said 
a  saying.  Oran  of  the  Songs  sang  a  hymn  of 
beauty.  Ardan  rose,  and  put  the  wine  of 
guests  to  his  Hps,  and  chanted  this  rune: 

O  Colum  and  monks  of  Christ, 

It  is  peace  we  are  having  this  night : 

Sure,  peace  is  a  good  thing. 

And  I  am  glad  with  the  gladness. 

We  worship  one  God, 
Though  ye  call  him  D^ — 
And  I  say  not,  O  Dia! 
But  cry  Bea'uU  ! 

For  it  is  one  faith  for  man. 
And  one  for  the  living  world, 
And  no  man  is  wiser  than  another — 
And  none  knoweth  much. 

None  knoweth  a  better  thing  than  this : 
The  Sword,  Love,  Song,  Honour,  Sleep. 
None  knoweth  a  surer  thing  than  this : 
Birth,  Sorrow,  Pain,  Weariness,  Death. 

Sure,  peace  is  a  good  thing; 
Let  us  be  glad  of  Peace: 
We  are  not  men  of  the  Sword, 
But  of  the  Rune  and  the  Wisdom. 
278 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

I  have  learned  a  truth  of  Colum, 
He  too  hath  learned  of  me : 
All  ye  on  the  morrow  shall  see 
A  wonder  of  the  wonders. 

The  thought  is  on  you,  that  the  Cross 
Is  known  only  of  you: 
Lo,  I  tell  you  the  birds  know  it 
That  are  marked  with  the  Sorrow. 

Listen  to  the  Birds  of  Sorrow, 
They  shall  tell  you  a  great  Joy: 
It  is  Peace  you  will  be  having, 
With  the  Birds. 

No  more  would  Ardan  say  after  that, 
though  all  besought  him. 

Many  pondered  long  that  night.  Oran 
made  a  song  of  mystery.  Colum  brooded 
through  the  dark;  but  before  dawn  he  slept 
upon  the  fern  that  strewed  his  cell.  At 
dawn,  with  waking  eyes,  and  weary,  he  saw 
his  Sleep  in  a  vision. 

It  stood  grey  and  wan  beside  him. 

"What  art  thou,  O  Spirit?"  he  said. 

"  I  am  thy  Sleep,  Colum." 

"  And  is  it  peace  ?  " 

"  It  is  peace." 

"  What  wouldest  thou  ?  " 

"  I  have  wisdom.  Thy  heart  and  thy  brain 
were  closed.  I  could  not  give  you  what  I 
brought.     I  brought  wisdom." 

"  Give  it." 

279 


The  Three  Mamels  of  Hy 

"  Behold !  " 

And  Colum,  sitting  upon  the  strewed  fern 
that  was  his  bed,  rubbed  his  eyes  that  were 
heavy  with  weariness  and  fasting  and  long 
prayer.  He  could  not  see  his  Sleep  now.  It 
was  gone  as  smoke  that  is  licked  up  by  the 
wind. 

But  on  the  ledge  of  the  hole  that  was  in 
the  eastern  wall  of  his  cell  he  saw  a  bird. 
He  leaned  his  elbow  upon  the  leabhar-aifrionn 
that  was  by  his  side.^     Then  he  spoke. 

"  Is  there  song  upon  thee,  O  Bru-dhearg?  " 

Then  the  Red-breast  sang,  and  the  singing 
was  so  sweet  that  tears  came  into  the  eyes 
of  Colum,  and  he  thought  the  sunlight  that 
was  streaming  from  the  east  was  melted  into 
that  lilting  sweet  song.  It  was  a  hymn  that 
the  Bru-dhearg  sang,  and  it  was  this: 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

Christ  upon  the  Cross: 
My  little  nest  was  near, 

Hidden  in  the  moss. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy. 

Christ  was  pale  and  wan: 
His  eyes  beheld  me  singing 
Bron,  Bron,  mo  Bron!  * 
>The  "leabhar-aifrionn"    (pron.  lyo-ur  eflf-rimn) 
is  a  missal:  literally  a  mass-book,  or  chapel-book. 
Bru-dhearg  is  literally  red-breast. 
^  "O  my  Grief,  my  Grief." 

280 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

"Come  near,  O  wee  brown  bird!" 
Christ  spake:  and  lo,  I  lighted 

Upon  the  Living  Word. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

I  heard  the  mocking  scorn! 

But  Holy,  Holy,  Holy 
I  sang  against  a  thorn! 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

Ah,  his  brow  was  bloody: 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

All  my  breast  was  ruddy. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

Christ's- Bird  shalt  thou  be: 

Thus  said  Mary  Virgin 
There  on  Calvary. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

A  wee  brown  bird  am  I: 
But  my  breast  is  ruddy 

For  I  saw  Christ  die. 

Holy,  Holy,  Holy, 

By  this  ruddy  feather, 
Colum,  call  thy  monks,  and 

All  the  birds  together. 

And  at  that  Colum  rose.  Awe  was  upon 
him,  and  joy. 

He  went  out  and  told  all  to  the  monks. 
Then  he  said  Mass  out  on  the  green  sward. 

281 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

The  yellow  sunshine  was  warm  upon  his  grey 
hair.  The  love  of  God  was  warm  in  his 
heart. 

"  Come,  all  ye  birds !  "  he  cried. 

And  lo,  all  the  birds  of  the  air  flew  nigh. 
The  golden  eagle  soared  from  the  Cuchullins 
in  far-off  Skye,  and  the  osprey  from  the  wild 
lochs  of  Mull;  the  gannet  from  above  the 
clouds,  and  the  fulmar  and  petrel  from  the 
green  wave :  the  cormorant  and  the  skua  from 
the  weedy  rock,  and  the  plover  and  the  kes- 
trel from  the  machar:  the  corbie  and  the 
raven  from  the  moor,  and  the  snipe  and  the 
bittern  and  the  heron :  the  cuckoo  and  cushat 
from  the  woodland :  the  crane  from  the 
swamp,  the  lark  from  the  sky,  and  the  mavis 
and  the  merle  from  the  green  bushes :  the  yel- 
lowyite,  the  shilfa,  and  the  lintie,  the  gyalvonn 
and  the  wren  and  the  redbreast,  one  and  all, 
every  creature  of  the  wings,  they  came  at  the 
bidding. 

"  Peace  !  "  cried  Colum. 

"  Peace !  "  cried  all  the  Birds,  and  even  the 
Eagle,  the  Kestrel,  the  Corbie,  and  the  Raven 
cried  Peace,  Peace! 

"  I  will  say  the  Mass,"  said  Colum  the 
White. 

And  with  that  he  said  the  Mass.  And  he 
blessed  the  birds. 

282 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

When  the  last  chant  was  sung,  only  the 
Bru-dhearg  remained. 

"  Come,  O  Ruddy-Breast,"  said  Colum, 
"  and  sing  to  us  of  the  Christ." 

Through  a  golden  hour  thereafter  the  Red- 
breast sang.     Sweet  was  the  joy  of  it. 

At  the  end  Colum  said,  "  Peace !  In  the 
name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy 
Ghost." 

Thereat  Ardan  the  Pict  bowed  his  head, 
and  in  a  loud  voice  repeated — 

"  Sith  (shee)  !  An  ainm  an  Athar,  's  an 
Mhic,  's  an  Spioraid  Naoimh !  " 

And  to  this  day  the  song  of  the  Birds  of 
Colum,  as  they  are  called  in  Hy,  is  SUh — • 
Sith—Sith — an — ainm — Chriosd 

"  Peace — Peace — Peace — in  the  name  of 
Christ !  " 


283 


II 


THE  SABBATH  OF  THE  FISHES  AND 
THE  FLIES 

For  three  days  Colum  had  fasted,  save  for 
a  mouthful  of  meal  at  dawn,  a  piece  of  rye- 
bread  at  noon,  and  a  mouthful  of  dulse  and 
spring-water  at  sundown.  On  the  night  of  the 
third  day,  Oran  and  Keir  came  to  him  in  his 
cell.  Colum  was  on  his  knees,  lost  in  prayer. 
There  was  no  sound  there,  save  the  faint 
whispered  muttering  of  his  lips,  and  on 
the  plastered  wall  the  weary  buzzing  of  a 
fly. 

"  Master !  "  said  Oran  in  a  low  voice,  soft 
with  pity  and  awe,  "  Master !  " 

But  Colum  took^no  notice.  His  lips  still 
moved,  and  the  tangled  hairs  below  his  nether 
lip  shivered  with  his  failing  breath. 

"Father!"  said  Keir,  tender  as  a  woman, 
"Father!"- 

Colum  did  not  turn  his  eyes  from  the  wall. 
The  fly  droned  his  drowsy  hum  upon  the 
rough    plaster.     It    crawled     wearily     for    a 

284 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

space,    then    stopped.     The    slow    hot    drone 
filled  the  cell. 

"  Master,"  said  Oran,  "  it  is  the  will  of 
the  brethren  that  you  break  your  fast.  You 
are  old,  and  God  has  your  glory.  Give  us 
peace." 

"  Father,"  urged  Keir,  seeing  that  Colum 
kneeled  unnoticingly,  his  lips  still  moving 
above  his  grey  beard,  with  the  white  hair  of 
him  falling  about  his  head  like  a  snowdrift 
slipping  from  a  boulder.  "  Father,  be  pitiful ! 
We  hunger  and  thirst  for  your  presence.  We 
can  fast  no  longer,  yet  have  we  no  heart  to 
break  our  fast  if  you  are  not  with  us.  Come, 
holy  one,  and  be  of  our  company,  and  eat  of 
the  good  broiled  fish  that  awaiteth  us.  We 
perish  for  the  benediction  of  thine  eyes." 

Then  it  was  that  Colum  rose,  and  walked 
slowly  toward  the  wall. 

"  Little  black  beast,"  he  said  to  the  fly  that 
droned  its  drowsy  hum  and  moved  not  at  all ; 
"  little  black  beast,  sure  it  is  well  I  am  know- 
ing what  you  are.  You  are  thinking  you  are 
going  to  get  my  blessing,  you  that  have  come 
out  of  hell  for  the  soul  of  me !  " 

At  that  the  fly  flew  heavily  from  the  wall, 
and  slowly  circled  round  and  round  the  head 
of  Colum  the  White. 

"  What   think  you   of  that,  brother   Oran, 

285 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

brother  Keir  ? "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice, 
hoarse  because  of  his  long  fast  and  the  wear- 
iness that  was  upon  him. 

"  It  is  a  fiend,"  said  Oran. 

"  It  is  an  angel,"  said  Keir. 

Thereupon  the  fly  settled  upon  the  wall 
again,  and  again  droned  his  drowsy  hot  hum. 

"  Little  black  beast,"  said  Colum,  with  the 
frown  coming  down  into  his  eyes,  "  is  it  for 
peace  you  are  here,  or  for  sin?  Answer,  I 
conjure  you  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  the 
Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost !  " 

"  An  ainni  an  Athar,  's  an  Mhic,  's  an  Spio- 
raid  Naoimh,"  repeated  Oran  below  his  breath. 

"An  ainm  an  Athar,  's  an  Mhic,  's  an 
Spioraid  Naoimh,"  repeated  Keir  below  his 
breath. 

Then  the  fly  that  was  upon  the  wall  flew 
up  to  the  roof  and  circled  to  and  fro.  And 
it  sang  a  beautiful  song,  and  its  song  was  this : 


Praise  be  to  God,  and  a  blessing  too  at  that,  and  a 
blessing ! 

For  Colum  the  White,  Colum  the  Dove,  hath  wor- 
shipped ; 

Yea,  he  hath  worshipped  and  made  of  a  desert  a 
garden, 

And  out  of  the  dung  of  men's  souls  hath  made  a  sweet 
savour  of  burning. 

286 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

II 

A  savour  of  burning,  most  sweet,  a  fire  for  the  altar. 
This  he  hath  made  in  the  desert;  the  hell-saved  all 

gladden. 
Sure  he  hath  put  his  benison,  too,  on  milch-cow  and 

bullock. 
On  the  fowls  of  the  air,  and  the  man-eyed  seals,  and 

the  otter. 

HI 

But  where  in  his  DAn  in  the  great  blue  mainland  of 

Heaven 
God  the  All-Father  broodeth,  where  the  harpers  are 

harping  his  glory; 
There  where  He  sitteth,  where  a  river  of  ale  poureth 

ever, 
His  great  sword  broken,  His  spear  in  the  dust,  He 

broodeth. 

IV 

And  this  is  the  thought  that  moves  in  his  brain,  as  a 

cloud  filled  with  thunder 
Moves  through  the  vast  hollow  sky  filled  with  the 

dust  of  the  stars: 
What  boots  it  the  glory  of  Colunt,  since  he  maketh  a 

Sabbath  to  bless  me. 
And  hath  no  thought  of  my  sons  in  the  deeps  of  the  air 

and  the  sea  ? 

And  with  that  the  fly  passed  from  their  vis- 
ion. In  the  cell  was  a  most  wondrous  sweet 
song,  like  the  sound  of  far-off  pipes  over 
water. 

287 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

Oran  said  in  a  low  voice  of  awe,  "  O  our 
God!" 

Keir  whispered,  white  with  fear,  "  O  God, 
my  God!" 

But  Cokim  rose,  and  took  a  scourge  from 
where  it  hung  on  the  wall.  "  It  shall  be  for 
peace,  Oran,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile  flit- 
ting like  a  bird  above  the  nest  of  his  black 
beard;  "it  shall  be  for  peace,  Keir!" 

And  with  that  he  laid  the  scourge  heavily 
upon  the  bent  backs  of  Keir  and  Oran,  nor 
stayed  his  hand,  nor  let  his  three  days'  fast 
weaken  the  deep  piety  that  was  in  the  might 
of  his  arm,  and  because  of  the  glory  to  God. 

Then,  when  he  was  weary,  peace  came  into 
his  heart,  and  he  sighed  "  Amen!  " 

"  Amen !  "  said  Oran  the  monk. 

"  Amen  I  "  said  Keir  the  monk. 

"  And  this  thing  hath  been  done,"  said 
Colum,  "  because  of  the  evil  wish  of  you  and 
the  brethren,  that  I  should  break  my  fast,  and 
eat  of  fish,  till  God  willeth  it.  And  lo,  I  have 
learned  a  mystery.  Ye  shall  all  witness  to  it 
on  the  morrow,  which  is  the  Sabbath." 

That  night  the  monks  wondered  much. 
Only  Oran  and  Keir  cursed  the  fishes  in  the 
deeps  of  the  sea  and  the  flies  in  the  deeps  of 
the  air. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  sun  was  yellow 

288 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

on  the  brown  sea-weed,  and  there  was  peace 
on  the  isle  and  upon  the  waters,  Cokim  and 
the  brotherhood  went  slowly  toward  the 
sea. 

At  the  meadows  that  are  close  to  the  sea, 
the  Saint  stood  still.    All  bowed  their  heads. 

"  O  winged  things  of  the  air,"  cried  Colum, 
*'  draw  near !  " 

With  that  the  air  was  full  of  the  hum  of 
innumerous  flies,  midges,  bees,  wasps,  moths, 
and  all  winged  insects.  These  settled  upon 
the  monks,  who  moved  not,  but  praised  God 
in  silence.  "  Glory  and  praise  to  God,"  cried 
Colum,  "  behold  the  Sabbath  of  the  children 
of  God  that  inhabit  the  deeps  of  the  air! 
Blessing  and  peace  be  upon  them." 

"  Peace !  Peace !  "  cried  the  monks,  with 
one  voice. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost !  "  cried  Colum  the  White, 
glad  because  of  the  glory  to  God. 

"An  ainni  an  Athar,  's  an  Mhic,  's  an  Spio- 
raid  Naoimh,"  cried  the  monks,  bowing  rev- 
erently, and  Oran  and  Keir  deepest  of  all,  be- 
cause they  saw  the  fly  that  was  of  Colum's 
cell  leading  the  whole  host,  as  though  it  were 
their  captain,  and  singing  to  them  a  marvel- 
lous sweet  song. 

Oran  and  Keir  testified  to  this  thing,  and 

289 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

all  were  full  of  awe  and  wonder^  and  Colum 
praised  God. 

Then  the  Saints  and  the  brotherhood  moved 
onward  and  went  upon  the  rocks.  When  all 
stood  ankle-deep  in  the  sea-weed  that  was 
swaying  in  the  tide,  Colum  cried: 

"  O  finny  creatures  of  the  deep,  draw 
near !  " 

And  with  that  the  whole  sea  shimmered  as 
with  silver  and  gold. 

All  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  and  the  great  eels, 
and  the  lobsters  and  the  crabs,  came  in  a 
swift  and  terrible  procession.  Great  was  the 
glory. 

Then  Colum  cried,  "  O  fishes  of  the  Deep^ 
who  is  your  king?  " 

Whereupon  the  herring,  the  mackerel,  and 
the  dog-fish  swam  forward,  and  each  claimed 
to  be  king.  But  the  echo  that  ran  from  wave 
to  wave  said,  The  Herring  is  King. 

Then  Colum  said  to  the  mackerel :  "  Sing 
the  song  that  is  upon  you !  " 

And  the  mackerel  sang  the  song  of  the  wild 
rovers  of  the  sea,  and  the  lust  of  pleasure. 

Then  Colum  said,  "  But  for  God's  mercy, 
I  would  curse  you,  O  false  fish." 

Then  he  spake  likewise  to  the  dog-fish :  and 
the  dog-fish  sang  of  slaughter  and  the  chase, 
and  the  joy  of  blood. 

290 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

And  Colum  said :  "  Hell  shall  be  your  por- 
tion." 

And  there  was  peace.  And  the  Herring 
said: 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost !  " 

Whereat  all  that  mighty  multitude,  ere  they 
sank  into  the  deep,  waved  their  fins  and  their 
claws,  each  after  his  kind,  and  repeated  as 
with  one  voice: 

"  An  ainm  an  Athar,  's  an  Mhic,  's  an  Spio- 
raid  Naoimh!  " 

And  the  glory  that  was  upon  the  Sound  of 
lona  was  as  though  God  trailed  a  starry  net 
upon  the  waters,  with  a  shining  star  in  every 
little  hollow,  and  a  flowing  moon  of  gold  on 
every  wave. 

Then  Colum  the  White  put  out  both  his 
arms,  and  blessed  the  children  of  God  that 
are  in  the  deeps  of  the  sea  and  that  are  in 
the  deeps  of  the  air. 

That  is  how  Sabbath  came  upon  all  living 
things  upon  Hy  that  is  called  lona,  and  with- 
in the  air  above  Hy,  and  within  the  sea  that 
is  around  Hy. 

And  the  glory  is  Colum's. 


291 


Ill 

THE  MOON-CHILD 

A  year  and  a  day  before  God  bade  Colum 
arise  to  the  Feast  of  Eternity,  Pol  the 
Freckled,  the  youngest  of  the  brethren,  came 
to  him,  on  a  night  of  the  nights. 

"  The  moon  is  among  the  stars,  O  Colum. 
By  his  own  will,  and  yours,  old  Murtagh 
that  is  this  day  with  God,  is  to  be  laid  in 
the  deep  dry  sand  at  the  east  end  of  the 
isle." 

So  the  holy  Saint  rose  from  his  bed  of 
weariness,  and  went  and  blessed  the  place 
that  Murtagh  lay  in,  and  bade  neither  the 
creeping  worm  nor  any  other  creature  to 
touch  the  sacred  dead.  "  Let  God  only,"  he 
said,  "  let  God  alone  strip  that  which  he  made 
to  grow." 

But  on  his  way  back  sleep  passed  from 
him.  The  sweet  salt  smell  of  the  sea  was  in 
his  nostrils :  he  heard  the  running  of  a  wave 
in  all  his  blood. 

At  the  cells  he  turned,  and  bade  the  breth- 

292 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

ren  go  in.  "  Peace  be  with  you,"  he  sighed 
wearily. 

Then  he  moved  downwards  toward  the  sea. 

A  great  tenderness  of  late  was  upon  Colum 
the  Bishop.  Ever  since  he  had  blessed  the 
fishes  and  the  flies,  the  least  of  the  children 
of  God,  his  soul  had  glowed  in  a  whiter  flame. 
There  was  deep  compassion  in  his  grey-blue 
eyes.  One  night  he  had  waked,  because  God 
was  there. 

"  O  Christ,"  he  cried,  bowing  low  his  old 
grey  head.  "  Sure,  ah  sure,  the  gladness 
and  the  joy,  because  of  the  hour  of  the 
hours." 

But  God  said :  "  Not  so,  Colum,  who  keepest 
me  upon  the  Cross.  It  is  Murtagh,  Murtagh 
the  Druid  that  was,  whose  soul  I  am  taking 
to  the  glory." 

With  that  Colum  rose  in  awe  and  great 
grief.  There  was  no  light  in  his  cell.  In  the 
deep  darkness,  his  spirit  quailed.  But  lo,  the 
beauty  of  his  heart  wrought  a  soft  gleam 
about  him,  and  in  that  moonshine  of  good 
deeds  he  rose  and  made  his  way  to  where 
Murtagh  lay. 

The  old  monk  slept  indeed.  It  was  a  sweet 
breath  he  drew — he,  young  and  fair  now,  and 
laughing  with  peace  under  the  apples  in  Par- 
adise. 

293 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

"  O  Miirtagh,"  Colum  cried,  "  and  thee  I 
thought  the  least  of  the  brethren,  because  that 
thou  wast  a  Druid,  and  loved  not  to  see  thy 
pagan  kindred  put  to  the  sword  if  they  would 
not  repent.  But,  true,  in  my  years  I  am  be- 
coming as  a  boy  who  learns,  knowing  noth- 
ing. God  wash  the  sin  of  pride  out  of  my 
hfe!" 

At  that  a  soft  white  shining,  as  of  one 
winged  and  beautiful,  stood  beside  the  dead. 

"  Art  thou  Murtagh  ?  "  whispered  Colum, 
in  deep  awe. 

"  No,  I  am  not  Murtagh,"  came  as  the 
breath  of  vanishing  song. 

"  What  art  thou  ?  " 

"  I  am  Peace/'  said  the  glory. 

Thereupon  Colum  sank  to  his  knees,  sob- 
bing with  joy,  for  the  sorrow  that  had  been 
and  was  no  more. 

"  Tell  me,  O  White  Peace,"  he  murmured, 
"  can  Murtagh  hearken,  there  under  the 
apples  where  God  is  ?  " 

"  God's  love  is  a  wind  that  blows  hitherward 
and  hence.     Speak,  and  thou  shalt  hear." 

Colum  spake.  "  O  Murtagh  my  brother, 
tell  me  in  what  way  it  is  that  I  still  keep  God 
crucified  upon  the  Cross." 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  cell  as  of  the 
morning-laughter  of  children,  of  the  singing 

294 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

of  birds,  of  the  sunlight  streaming-  through 
the  bhie  fields  of  Heaven. 

Then  Murtagh's  voice  came  out  of  Para- 
dise, sweet  w^ith  the  sweetness :  honey-sweet 
it  was,  and  clothed  with  deep  awe  because  of 
the  glory. 

"  Colum,  servant  of  Christ,  arise !  " 

Colum  rose,  and  was  as  a  leaf  there,  a  leaf 
that  is  in  the  wind. 

"  Colum,  thine  hour  is  not  yet  come.  I  see 
it,  bathing  in  the  white  light  which  is  the 
Pool  of  Eternal  Life,  that  is  in  the  abyss 
where  deep-rooted  are  the  Gates  of  Heaven." 

"And  my  sin,  O  Murtagh,  my  sin?" 

"  God  is  weary  because  thou  hast  not  re- 
pented." 

"  O  my  God  and  my  God !  Sure,  Mur- 
tagh, if  that  is  so,  it  is  so,  but  it  is  not  for 
knowledge  to  me.  Sure,  O  God,  it  is  a  bless- 
ing I  have  put  on  man  and  woman,  on  beast 
and  bird  and  fish,  on  creeping  things  and  fly- 
ing things,  on  the  green  grass  and  the  brown 
earth  and  the  flowing  wave,  on  the  wind  that 
cometh  and  goeth,  and  on  the  mystery  of  the 
flame !  Sure,  O  God,  I  have  sorrowed  for 
all  my  sins :  there  is  not  one  I  have  not  fasted 
and  prayed  for.  Sorrow  upon  me ! — Is  it  ac- 
cursed I  am,  or  what  is  the  evil  that  holdeth 
me  by  the  hand  ?  " 

295 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

Then  Murtagh,  calling  through  sweet 
dreams  and  the  rainbow-rain  of  happy  tears 
that  make  that  place  so  wondrous  and  so  fair, 
spake  once  more : 

"  O  Colum,  blind  art  thou.  Hast  thou  yet 
repented  because  after  that  thou  didst  cap- 
ture tlie  great  black  seal,  that  is  a  man  under 
spells,  thou,  with  thy  monks,  didst  crucify 
him  upon  the  great  rock  at  the  place  where, 
long  ago,  thy  coracle  came  ashore  ?  " 

"  O  Murtagh,  favoured  of  God,  will  you 
not  be  explaining  to  Him  that  is  King  of  the 
Elements,  that  this  was  because  the  seal  who 
was  called  Black  Angus  wrought  evil  upon  a 
mortal  woman,  and  that  of  the  sea-seed  was 
sprung  one  who  had  no  soul?  " 

But  no  answer  came  to  that,  and  when 
Colum  looked  about  him,  behold  there  was 
no  soft  shining,  but  only  the  body  of  Mur- 
tagh the  old  monk.  With  a  heavy  heart,  and 
his  soul  like  a  sinking  boat  in  a  sea  of  pain, 
he  turned  and  went  out  into  the  night. 

A  fine,  wonderful  night  it  was.  The  moon 
lay  low  above  the  sea,  and  all  the  flowing 
gold  and  flashing  silver  of  the  rippling  run- 
ning water  seemed  to  be  a  flood  going  that 
way  and  falling  into  the  shining  hollow  splen- 
dour. 

Through  the  sea-weed  the  old  Saint  moved, 

296 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

weary  and  sad.  When  he  came  to  a  sandy 
place  he  stopped.  There,  on  a  rock,  he  saw 
a  h'ttle  child.  Naked  she  was,  though  clad 
with  soft  white  moonlight.  In  her  hair  were 
brown  weeds  of  the  sea,  gleaming  golden  be- 
cause of  the  glow.  In  her  hands  was  a  great 
shell,  and  at  that  shell  was  her  mouth.  And 
she  was  singing  this  song;  passing  sweet  to 
hear  it  was,  with  the  sea-music  that  was  in 
it: 

A  little  lonely  child  am  I 
That  have  not  any  soul: 

God  made  me  but  a  homeless  wave, 
Without  a  goal. 

A  seal  my  father  was,  a  seal 

That  once  was  man: 
My  mother  loved  him  tho'  he  was 

'Neath  mortal  ban. 

He  took  a  wave  and  drowned  her, 
She  took  a  wave  and  lifted  him: 

And  I  was  born  where  shadows  are 
r  the  sea-depths  dim. 

All  through  the  sunny  blue-sweet  hours 
I  swim  and  glide  in  waters  green; 

Never  by  day  the  mournful  shores 
By  me  are  seen. 

But  when  the  gloom  is  on  the  wave 
A  shell  unto  the  shore  I  bring: 

And  then  upon  the  rocks  I  sit 
And  plaintive  sing. 
297 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

O  what  is  this  wild  song  I  sing, 
With  meanings  strange  and  dim? 

No  soul  am  I,  a  wave  am  I, 

And  sing  the  Moon-Child's  hymn. 

Softly  Colum  drew  nigh. 

"  Peace,"  he  said.  "  Peace,  little  one.  Ah 
tender  little  heart,  peace !  " 

The  child  looked  at  him  with  wide  sea- 
dusky  eyes. 

"  Is  it  Colum  the  Holy  you  will  be?  " 

"  No,  my  fawn,  my  white  dear  babe :  it  is 
not  Colum  the  Holy  I  am,  but  Colum  the  poor 
fool  that  knew  not  God !  " 

"  Is  it  you,  O  Colum,  that  put  the  sorrow 
on  my  mother,  who  is  the  Sea-woman  that 
lives  in  the  whirlpool  over  there  ?  " 

"  Ay,  God  forgive  me !  " 

"  Is  it  you,  O  Colum,  that  crucified  the 
seal  that  was  my  father:  him  that  was  a 
man  once,  and  that  was  called  Black  An- 
gus?" 

"  Ay,  God  forgive  me !  " 

"  Is  it  you,  O  Colum,  that  bade  the  chil- 
dren of  Hy  run  away  from  me,  because  I  was 
a  moon-child,  and  might  win  them  by  the  sea- 
spell  into  the  green  wave  ?  " 

"  Ay,  God  forgive  me !  " 

"  Sure,  dear  Colum,  it  was  to  the  glory  of 
God,  it  was  ?  " 

298 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

"  Ay,  He  knoweth  it,  and  can  hear  it,  too, 
from  Murtagh,  who  died  this  night." 

"  Look !  " 

And  at  that  Cokim  looked,  and  in  a  moon- 
gold  wave  he  saw  Black  Angus,  the  seal-man, 
drifting  dark,  and  the  eyes  in  his  round  head 
were  the  eyes  of  love.  And  beside  the  man- 
seal  swam  a  woman  fair  to  see,  and  she  looked 
at  him  with  joy,  and  with  joy  at  the  Moon- 
Child  that  was  her  own,  and  at  Colum  with 
joy. 

Thereupon  Colum  fell  upon  his  knees  and 
cried — 

"  Give  me  thy  sorrow,  wild  woman  of  the 
sea !  " 

"  Peace  to  you,  Colum,"  she  answered,  and 
sank  into  the  shadow-thridden  wave. 

"  Give  me  thy  death  and  crucifixion,  O 
Angus-dhu !  "  cried  the  Saint^  shaking  with 
the  sorrow. 

"  Peace  to  you,  Colum,"  answered  the  man- 
seal,  and  sank  into  the  dusky  quietudes  of  the 
deep. 

"  Ah,  bitter  heart  o'  me !  Teach  me  the 
way  to  God,  O  little  child,"  cried  Colum  the 
old,  turning  to  where  the  Moon-Child  was ! 

But  lo,  the  glory  and  the  wonder! 

It  was  a  little  naked  child  that  looked  at 
him  with  healing  eyes,  but  there  were  no  sea- 

299 


The  Three  Marvels  of  Hy 

weeds  in  her  hair,  and  no  shell  in  the  little 
wee  hands  of  her.  For  now,  it  was  a  male 
Child  that  was  there,  shining  with  a  light  from 
within :  and  in  his  fair  sunny  hair  was  a 
shadowy  crown  of  thorns,  and  in  his  hand 
was  a  pearl  of  great  price. 

"  O  Christ,  my  God,"  said  Colum,  with 
failing  voice. 

"  It  is  thine  now,  O  Colum,"  said  the  Moon- 
Child,  holding  out  to  him  the  shining  pearl 
of  great  price. 

'*  What  is  it,  O  Lord  my  God?  "  whispered 
the  old  servant  of  God  that  was  now  glad 
with  the  gladness :  "  what  is  this,  thy  boon  ?  " 

"  Perfect  Peace." 

And  that  is  all. 
{To  God  be  the  Glory.    Amen.) 


300 


THE  WOMAN   WITH 
THE   NET 


The  Woman  With 

the  Net 


When  Artan  had  kissed  the  brow  of  every 
white-robed  brother  on  lona,  and  had  been 
thrice  kissed  by  the  aged  Colum,  his  heart  was 
filled  with  gladness. 

It  was  late  summer.  In  the  afternoon 
light  peace  lay  on  the  green  waters  of  the 
Sound,  on  the  green  grass  of  the  dunes,  on 
the  white  and  brown  domed  cells  of  the  Cul- 
dees  over  whom  the  holy  Colum  ruled,  and 
on  the  little  rock-strewn  hill  which  rose  above 
where  stood  Colum's  wattled  church  of  sun- 
baked mud. 

The  abbot  walked  slowly  by  the  side  of  the 
young  man.  Colum  was  tall,  with  hair  long 
and  heavy  but  white  as  the  canna,  and  with  a 
beard  that  hung  low  on  his  breast,  grey  as  the 
moss  on  old  firs.  His  blue  eyes  were  tender. 
The  youth — for  though  he  was  a  grown  man 
he  seemed  a  youth  beside  Colum — had  beauty. 
He  was  tall  and  comely,  with  yellow  curling 
hair,  and  dark-blue  eyes,  and  a  skin  so  white 
that    it    troubled    some    of    the    monks    who 

303 


The  Woman  zvith  the  Net 

dreamed  old  dreams  and  washed  them  away 
in  tears  and  scourgings. 

"  You  have  the  bitter  fever  of  youth  upon 
you,  Artan,"  said  Cokim,  as  they  crossed  the 
dunes  beyond  Dun-I ;  "  but  you  have  no  fear, 
and  you  will  be  a  flame  among  these  Pictish 
idolaters,  and  you  will  be  a  lamp  to  show 
them  the  way." 

"  And  when  I  come  again,  there  will  be 
clappings  of  hands,  and  hymns,  and  many  re- 
joicings ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  you  will  come  again,"  said 
Colum.  "  The  wild  folk  of  these  northlands 
will  burn  you,  or  crucify  you,  or  put  you 
upon  the  crahslat,  or  give  you  thirst  and  hun- 
ger till  you  die.  It  will  be  a  great  joy  for 
you  to  die  like  that,  Artan,  my  son?  " 

"  Ay,  a  great  joy,"  answered  the  young 
monk,  but  with  his  eyes  dreaming  away  from 
his  words. 

There  was  silence  between  them  as  they 
neared  the  cove  where  a  large  coracle  lay,  with 
three  men  in  it. 

"  Will  God  be  coming  to  lona  when  I  am 
away?"  asked  Artan. 

Colum  stared  at  him. 

"  Is  it  likely  that  God  would  come  here  in 
a  coracle?"  he  asked,  with  scornful  eyes. 

The  young  man  looked  abashed.     For  sure, 

304 


The  Woman  with  the  Net 

God  would  not  come  in  a  coracle,  just  as  he 
himself  might  come.  He  knew  by  that  how 
Colum  had  reproved  him.  He  would  come 
in  a  cloud  of  fire,  and  would  be  seen  from  far 
and  near.  Artan  wondered  if  the  place  he 
was  going  to  was  too  far  north  for  him  to 
see  that  greatness ;  but  he  feared  to  ask. 

"  Give  me  a  new  name,"  he  asked  ;  "  give  me 
a  new  name,  my  Father." 

"  What  name  will  you  have  ?  " 

"  Servant  of  Mary." 

"  So  be  it,  Artan  Gille-Mhoire." 

With  that  Colum  kissed  him  and  bade  fare- 
well, and  Artan  sat  down  in  the  coracle,  and 
covered  his  head  with  his  mantle,  and  wept 
and  prayed. 

The  last  word  he  heard  was,  Peace! 

"  That  is  a  good  word,  and  a  good  thing," 
he  said  to  himself ;  "  and  because  I  am  the 
Servant  of  Mary,  and  the  Brother  of  Jesu  the 
Son,  I  will  take  peace  to  the  Cruitne,  who 
know  nothing  of  that  blessing  of  the  bless- 
ings." 

When  he  unfolded  his  mantle,  the  coracle 
was  already  far  from  lona.  The  south  wind 
blew,  and  the  tides  swept  northward,  and  the 
boat  moved  swiftly  across  the  water.  The 
sea  was  ashine  with  froth  and  small  waves 
leaping  like  lambs. 

305 


The  Woman  with  the  Net 

In  the  boat  were  Thorkeld,  a  helot  of  lona, 
and  two  dark  wild-eyed  men  of  the  north. 
They  were  Picts,  but  could  speak  the  tongue 
of  the  Gael.  Myrdu,  the  Pictish  king  of  Skye, 
had  sent  them  to  lona,  to  bring  back  from 
Colum  a  Culdee  who  could  show  wonders, 

"  And  tell  the  Chief  Druid  of  the  crossed 
Tree,"  Myrdu  had  said,  "that  if  his  Culdee 
does  not  show  me  good  wonders,  and  make 
me  believe  in  his  two  gods  and  the  woman, 
I  will  put  an  ash-shaft  through  his  body  from 
his  hips  and  out  at  his  mouth,  and  send  him 
back  on  the  north-tide  to  the  Isle  of  the 
White-Robes." 

The  sun  was  lying  among  the  outer  isles 
when  the  coracle  passed  near  the  Isle  of  the 
Columns.  A  great  noise  was  in  the  air:  the 
noise  of  the  waves  in  the  caverns,  and  the 
noise  of  the  tide,  like  sea-wolves  growling, 
and  like  bulls  bellowing  in  a  narrow  pass  of 
the  hills. 

A  sudden  current  caught  the  boat,  and  it 
began  to  drift  toward  great  reefs  white  with 
ceaseless  torn  streams. 

Thorkeld  leaned  from  the  helm,  and 
shouted  to  the  two  Picts.  They  did  not  stir, 
but  sat  staring,  idle  with  fear. 

Artan  knew  now  that  it  was  as  Colum  had 
said.     God  would  give  him  glory  soon. 

306 


The  Woman  with  the  Net 

So  he  took  the  little  clarsach  he  had  for 
hymns,  for  he  was  the  best  harper  on  lona, 
and  struck  the  strings,  and  sang.  But  the 
Latin  words  tangled  in  his  throat,  and  he  knew 
too  that  the  men  in  the  boat  would  not  under- 
stand what  he  sang;  also  that  the  older  gods 
still  came  far  south,  and  in  the  caves  of  the 
Isle  of  Columns  were  demons.  There  was  only 
one  tongue  common  to  all ;  and  since  God 
had  wisdom  beyond  that  of  Colum  himself. 
He  would  know  the  song  in  Gaelic  as  well  as 
though  it  were  sung  in  Latin. 

So  Artan  let  the  wind  take  his  broken 
hymn,  and  he  made  a  song  of  his  own,  and 
sang — 

O  Heavenly  Mary,  Queen  of  the  Elements, 
And  you,  Brigit  the  fair,  with  the  little  harp. 
And  all  the  saints,  and  all  the  old  gods. 
Speak  to  the  Father,  that  He  may  save  us  from 
drowning. 

Then,  seeing  that  the  boat  drifted  closer, 
he  sang  again — 

Save   us   from   the   rocks   and   the   sea,    Queen   of 

Heaven ! 
And  remember  that  I  am  a  culdee  of  lona. 
And  that  Colum  has  sent  me  to  the  Cruitne 
To  sing  them  the  song  of  peace  lest  they  be  damned 

for  ever! 


The  Woman  with  the  Net 

Thorkeld  laughed  at  that. 

"  Can  the  woman  put  swimming  upon  you  ?  " 
he  said  roughly.  "  I  would  rather  have  the 
good  fin  of  a  great  fish  now  than  any  woman 
in  the  skies." 

"  You  will  burn  in  hell  for  that,"  said  Artan, 
the  holy  zeal  warm  at  his  heart. 

But  Thorkeld  answered  nothing.  His 
hand  was  on  the  helm,  his  eyes  on  the  foam- 
ing rocks.  Besides,  what  had  he  to  do  with 
the  culdee's  hell  or  heaven?  When  he  died, 
he,  who  was  a  man  of  Lochlann,  would  go 
to  his  own  place. 

One  of  the  dark  men  stood,  holding  the 
mast.  His  eyes  shone.  Thick  words  swung 
from  his  lips,  like  seaweed  thrown  out  of  a 
hollow  by  an  ebbing  wave. 

The  coracle  swerved,  and  the  four  men 
were  wet  with  the  heavy  spray. 

Thorkeld  put  his  oar  in  the  water,  and  the 
swaying  craft  righted. 

"  Glory  to  God !  "  said  Artan. 

"  There  is  no  glory  to  your  god  in  this,"  said 
Thorkeld  scornfully.  "  Did  you  not  hear  what 
Necta  sang?  He  sang  to  the  woman  in  there 
that  drags  men  into  the  caves,  and  throws 
their  bones  on  the  next  tide.  He  put  an  in- 
cantation upon  her,  and  she  shrank,  and  the 
boat  slid  away  from  the  rocks." 

308 


Tiie  Woman  zvith  the  Net 

"  That  is  a  true  thing,"  thought  Artan.  He 
wondered  if  it  was  because  he  had  not  sung 
his  hymn  in  the  holy  Latin. 

When  the  last  flame  died  out  of  the  west, 
and  the  stars  came  like  sheep  gathering  at  the 
call  of  the  shepherd,  Artan  remembered  that 
he  had  not  said  the  prayers  nor  sung  the  Ves- 
per hymn. 

He  lay  back  and  listened.  There  were  no 
bells  calling  across  the  water.  He  looked 
into  the  depths.  It  was  Manann's  kingdom, 
and  he  had  never  heard  that  God  was  there ; 
but  he  looked.  Then  he  stared  into  the  dark- 
blue,  star-strewn  sky. 

Suddenly  he  touched  Thorkeld. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  how  far  north  has  the 
Cross  of  Christ  come  ?  " 

"  By  the  sea-way  it  has  not  come  here 
yet.  Murdoch  the  Freckled  came  with  it 
this  way,  but  he  was  pulled  into  the  sea,  and 
he  died." 

"  Who  pulled  him  into  the  sea  ?  " 

Thorkeld  stared  into  the  running  wave.  He 
had  no  words. 

Artan  lay  still  a  long  while. 

"  It  will  go  ill  with  me,"  he  thought,  "  if 
Mary  cannot  see  me  so  far  away  from  lona, 
and  if  God  will  not  listen  to  me.  Colum 
should  have  known  that,  and  given  me  a  holy 

309 


The  J V Oman  with  the  Net 

leaf  with  the  fair  branching  letters  on  it, 
and  the  Latin  words  that  are  the  words  of 
God." 

Then  he  spoke  to  the  man  who  had  sung. 

"  Who  is  the  Woman  with  the  Net,"  he  said, 
"  of  whom  you  sang?  " 

Necta  turned  his  head  away. 

"  I  said  it  when  I  sang,"  he  said  sullenly. 

"  Tell  me." 

"  She  ?  She  is  the  Woman  who  stands  on 
the  banks  of  the  river." 

"What  river?" 

"  I  do  not  know  the  name  of  the  river." 

"  Is  it  north  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  It  is  the  great  river. 
The  banks  have  mist  and  shadow.  She  has 
a  great  net.  And  when  she  nets  men  they 
are  dead.  She  takes  them  out  of  the  net,  and 
some  she  throws  into  a  caldron  in  the  rocks, 
filled  with  green  flame,  and  some  she  puts  be- 
neath her  feet  and  tramples  into  dust.  That 
is  how  the  sand  is  made." 

Artan  shivered  with  the  thought  that  leaped 
in  his  mind.  All  those  white  sands  of  lona 
.  .  .  were  they  fair  beautiful  women  trampled 
into  white  sand  by  the  feet  of  the  Woman 
with  the  Net? 

"  What  of  those  in  the  caldron  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  They  are  thrown  out  on  the  wind.     They 

310 


The  Woman  with  the  Net 

pass  into  trees  and  grass  and  reeds,  and  deer 
and  wolves,  and  men  and  women." 

"Where?" 

The  man  stared  idly. 

"  There  are  three  there,"  he  said,  "  who 
watch  the  Woman  with  the  Net.  One  sits  on 
a  great  stone  and  is  bHnd ;  one  whirls  a  flam- 
ing sword ;  one  stands  and  leans  on  a  great 
spear." 

"  Who  are  these  three  ?  "  asked  Artan. 

The  man  stared  idly. 

"  There  is  fire  on  the  ground  below  that 
sword.  There  is  blood  on  the  ground  below 
that  spear.  The  man  with  the  sword  puts  it 
into  the  blackness  of  the  shadow  that  is  about 
the  great  stone,  but  he  does  not  know  what  is 
there.  The  man  with  the  spear  puts  it  into  the 
blackness  about  the  great  stone,  but  he  does 
not  know  what  is  there.  The  blind  man  on 
the  stone  has  his  feet  in  the  blackness  of  the 
shadow,  but  he  does  not  know  what  is  there." 

''  It  will  be  Mary,"  said  Artan,  brooding 
deep ;  "  it  will  be  Mary,  and  God,  and  the 
Son,  and  the  Spirit." 

But  Necta  the  Pict  stared  at  him. 

"  What  have  these  ancient  ones  to  do  with 
your  lona  gods,  White-Robe  ?  " 

Artan  frowned. 

"  The  curse  of  the  God  of  Peace  upon  you 

311 


The  Woman  with  the  Net 

for  that,"  he  said  angrily :  "  do  you  not  know 
that  you  have  hell  for  your  dwelling-place  if 
you  speak  evil  of  God  the  Father,  and  the 
Son,  and  the  Mother  of  God  ?  " 

"  How  long  have  they  been  in  lona,  White- 
Robe?" 

The  man  spoke  scornfully.  Artan  knew 
they  had  not  been  there  many  years.  He  had 
no  words. 

"  My  fathers  worshipped  the  Sun  on  the 
Holy  Isle  before  ever  your  great  Druid  that 
is  called  Colum  crossed  the  Moyle.  Were  your 
three  gods  in  the  coraclq  with  Colum?  They 
were  not  on  the  Holy  Isle  when  he  came." 

"  They  were  coming  there,"  answered 
Artan  confusedly.  "  It  is  a  long  way  from 
.  .  .  from  .  .  .  from  the  place  they  were  sail- 
ing from," 

Necta  listened  sullenly. 

"  Let  them  stay  on  lona,"  he  said :  "  gods 
though  they  be,  it  would  fare  ill  with  them  if 
they  came  upon  the  Woman  with  the  Net." 
Then  he  turned  on  his  side,  and  lay  by  the 
man  Darach,  who  was  staring  at  the  moon 
and  muttering  words  that  neither  Artan  nor 
Thorkeld  knew. 

For  a  time  the  Culdee  and  the  helot  spoke 
in  low  voices.  Thorkeld  spoke  of  his  gods. 
Then    he    laughed    when    he    spoke    of    the 

312 


The  JVoinan  with  the  Net 

women-haters,  as  he  called  the  holy  men  of 
lona.  Artan  said  nothing.  Why  should  he 
hate  women,  he  thought?  They  were  very 
fair,  he  remembered,  and  made  the  heart  beat. 

Thorkeld  smiled.  He  spoke  of  women. 
Artan  heard  a  song  in  the  sea.  The  stars 
shone  like  fires  in  a  haven.  He  put  his  hand 
in  the  water,  and  put  that  water  against  his 
dry  lips.     The  salt  stung  him. 

Thorkeld  slept.  A  white  calm  had  fallen. 
The  boat  lay  like  a  shell  on  a  silent  pool. 
There  was  nothing  between  that  dim  wilder- 
ness and  the  vast  sweeping  blackness  filled 
with  quivering  stars,  but  the  coracle,  that  a 
wave  could  crush. 

Artan  could  not  sleep ;  it  was  easier  to  for- 
get God,  and  the  Son,  and  the  Spirit,  than 
those  white  women  of  whom  Thorkeld  had 
spoken.  He  felt  hands  touch  him,  white  and 
warm.     A  fever  was  in  his  blood. 

Then  he  slept,  and  dreamed  that  he  was  on 
a  misty  bank  by  a  great  river.  The  river  was 
salt,  and  moans  and  cries  filled  the  lamentable 
rushing  noise. 

A  great  fear  came  upon  him.  He  drew 
back,  and  something  came  out  of  the  dark- 
ness and  swept  past  him.  The  cold  air  of  it 
made  him  stagger  and  shiver.  He  put  his 
hands  to  a  bush,  and  they  went  through  it, 

313 


The  Woman  zvith  the  Net 

and  he  fell.  There  was  a  spear  on  the 
ground.  He  put  his  hand  on  it,  and  it  was 
dust. 

Then  he  rose  and  cried — 

O  Mary,  Mother  of  God,  Queen  of  the  Elements, 
Have  mercy  upon  Artan  the  Culdee! 
For  it  is  a  good  deed  I  do  coming  here  to  the  heathen, 
And  Colum  will  tell  you  that,  Colum  of  lona  ! 

But  something  swept  again  out  of  the  dark- 
ness, and  Artan  was  caught  in  a  net,  and  was 
swung  across  the  river.  And  in  that  net 
there  were  fish  beyond  count,  and  all  were 
men  and  women,  and  all  were  dead,  and  were 
calling  upon  many  gods. 

Then  he  saw  a  white  face  in  the  dusk. 
Great  stars  shone  in  the  hair  about  the  brows ; 
bats  flew  in  the  hollow  caverns  of  the  eyes; 
and  a  hand,  grey-white  as  clay,  plucked  at  the 
mass  that  was  in  the  net.  Some  were  thrown 
out,  and  were  trampled  into  dust,  and  a  wind 
blew  the  dust  into  the  river,  and  the  grains 
were  borne  to  the  lips  of  all  isles  and  shores, 
and  were  idle  sand  thenceforth.  And  some 
were  plucked  by  the  hand,  and  were  thrown 
into  the  great  caldron  of  green  fire.  Artan 
was  of  these.  And  as  he  swam  hither  and 
thither  in  that  immortal  water  that  was  as 
green   fire,    he   saw   the    Blind    Man   on   the 

3H 


The  Woman  zvith  the  Net 

Stone,  and  the  Man  who  whirled  a  flaming 
Sword,  and  the  Man  with  the  Spear. 

The  Man  with  the  Sword  cleaved' him  in 
two  parts,  and  Artan  swam  as  two  swim,  but 
knew  not  the  one  part  from  the  other,  or 
which  he  was.  Then  the  Man  with  the  Spear 
drove  the  spear  through  the  two  parts  as  they 
swam,  and  they  were  made  one.  And  Artan's 
heart  shook  w^ith  wonder,  for  in  that  same 
moment,  as  it  seemed,  he  was  in  a  dim  wood, 
and  stood  by  a  tree,  and  by  another  tree  was 
a  woman,  like  a  flame  of  pale  green,  and  more 
beautiful  than  his  dreams.  He  heard  the 
wind  in  the  grass,  and  saw  a  star  among  dark 
branches,  and  in  the  moonshine  a  bird  sang. 
The  woman  threw  a  white  flower  at  his  feet, 
and  he  gave  a  cry,  and  her  breast  warmed  his 
breast,  and  her  breath  was  as  flame,  and  all 
his  youth  was  upon  him  again,  and  Colum 
was  far  away,  and  the  Others  were  not  there 
in  that  place. 

Then  Artan  woke,  and  saw  the  cold  shine 
of  the  stars,  and  heard  the  dawn-wind  on  the 
sea.  To  the  east,  the  mountain-peaks  of  Skye 
rose  dark,  but  pale  light  travelled  along  their 
summits.     It  was  day. 

For  three  years  Artan  dwelt  among  the 
Picts.  He  was  called  the  Dart-Thrower  be- 
cause of  his  skill  in  war.     He  had  to  wife 

315 


The  Woman  with  the  Net 

Oona,  the  daughter  of  Myrdu  the  king,  and 
three  women  loved  him  and  were  held  by 
him.  But  Oona  only  he  loved.  He  knew  no 
Latin  words  now ;  but  once  the  sea-rovers 
brought  a  coracle  with  three  Culdees  in  it,  and 
he  heard  one  singing  the  old  words  as  he  died 
slowly  on  the  tall  tree  where  he  was  crucified. 
For  one  was  blinded  and  led  naked  into  the 
woods;  and  one  was  thrust  through  with  an 
ash-shaft,  from  the  hips  to  the  mouth,  and 
thrown  upon  the  tide ;  and  one  was  tied  to  a 
sapling,  and  was  crucified  upon  a  tall  tree. 

"  I  have  no  Latin  now,"  said  Artan  to  the 
monk,  "  but  tell  me  this :  Are  God  and  the 
Son  and  the  Spirit  still  upon  lona  ?  " 

The  monk  cursed  him  and  died. 

That  curse  went  out,  and  lay  upon  Oona, 
and  she  withered,  and  lay  down,  and  life  went 
from  her. 

Artan  took  a  great  galley  that  held  a  score 
men.     He  set  sail  for  lona. 

But  God  was  now  come  further  north  than 
lona;  for  between  the  Holy  Isle  and  the  Isle 
of  the  Columns  the  boat  filled  and  sank. 

Colum  beheld  this  in  a  vision,  and  in  a 
hymn  praised  God.  Artan  alone  did  not 
drown,  but  swam  on  a  spar,- and  was  washed 
on  to  the  sands  at  lona. 

The  Culdees  took  him. 

316 


The  Woman  with  the  Net 

"  In  the  name  of  God,"  said  Colum,  with 
fierce  anger  in  his  eyes :  "  in  the  name  of  God, 
put  Artan,  the  servant  of  Mary,  into  the  cell 
below  the  ground ;  and  let  him  rest  and  pray 
there  through  the  night ;  and  at  dawn  we  shall 
take  him  out  upon  the  shore,  and  shall  drive 
a  stake  through  his  breast,  and  the  demon  that 
is  within  him  shall  go  out  of  him,  and  he 
himself  shall  go  to  God  the  Father.  For  he 
has  had  the  holy  water  on  him,  and  is  of 
those  who  dwell  with  the  saints." 

For  Colum  knew  all  that  Artan  had  done. 

So  Artan  the  Culdee  lay  in  darkness  that 
night.    And  before  dawn  he  made  this  song — 

It  is  but  a  little  thing  to  sit  here  in  the  silence  and 

the  dark; 
For  I  remember  the  blazing  noon  when  I  saw  Oona 

the  White. 
I  remember  the  day  when  we  sailed  the  Strait  in  our 

skin-built  bark, 
And  I  remember  Oona's  lips  on  mine  in  the  heart  of 

the  night. 

So  it  is  a  little  thing  to  sit  here,  hearing  nought,  see- 
ing nought ; 

When  the  dawn  breaks  they  will  hurry  me  hence  to 
the  new-dug  grave: 

It  will  be  quiet  there,  if  it  be  true  what  the  good 
Colum  has  taught, 

And  I  shall  hear  Oona's  voice  as  a  sleeping  seal  hears 
the  moving  wave. 

Z^7 


CATHAL  OF  THE  WOODS 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 


(The  Annir  Choille.^) 

When  Cathal  mac  Art,  that  was  called 
Cathal  Gille-Mhoiee,  Cathal  the  Servant  of 
Mary,  walked  by  the  sea,  one  night  of  the 
nights  in  a  green  May,  there  was  trouble  in 
his  heart. 

It  was  not  long  since  he  had  left  lona. 
The  good  St  Colum,  in  sending  the  youth  to 
the  Isle  of  A-rinn,  as  it  was  then  called,  gave 
him  a  writing  for  St  Molios,  the  holy  man 
who  lived  in  the  sea-cave  of  the  small  Isle  of 
the  Peak,  that  is  in  the  eastward  hollow  at 
the  south  end  of  Arran.  A  sorrow  it  was  to 
him  to  leave  the  fair  isle  in  the  west.  He 
had  known  glad  years  there — since,  in  one 
of  the  remote  isles  to  the  north,  he  had  seen 
his  father  slain  by  a  man  of  Lochlin,  and  his 
mother  carried  away  in  a  galley  oared  by 
fierce  yellow-haired  men.  No  kith  or  kin  had 
he  but  the  old  priest,  that  was  the  brother  of 

1  The  English  equivalent  of  Annir-Choille  would 
be  the  Wood-nymph.  The  word  A  nnir  is  an  ancient 
compound  Gaelic  word  for  a  maiden. 

321 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

his   father,  Cathal   Gille-Chriosd,   Cathal  the 
Servant  of  Christ. 

On  lona  he  had  learned  the  way  of  Christ. 
He  had  a  white  robe;  and  could,  with  a 
shaven  stick  and  a  thin  tuft  of  seal-fur,  or 
with  the  feather-quill  of  a  wild  swan  or  a 
solander,  write  the  holy  words  upon  strained 
lambskin  or  parchment,  and  fill  the  big  let- 
ters, that  were  here  and  there,  with  earth- 
brown  and  sky-blue  and  shining  green,  with 
scarlet  of  blood  and  gold  of  sun-warm  sands. 
He  could  sing  the  long  holy  hymns,  too,  that 
Colum  loved  to  hear;  and  it  was  his  voice 
that  had  the  sweetest  clear-call  of  any  on  the 
island.  He  was  in  the  nineteenth  year  of  his 
years  when  a  Frankish  prince,  who  had  come 
to  lona  for  the  blessing  of  the  Saint,  wanted 
him  to  go  back  with  him  to  the  Southlands. 
He  promised  many  things  because  of  that 
voice.  Cathal  dreamed  often,  in  the  hot 
drowsy  afternoons  of  the  month  that  followed, 
of  the  long  white  sword  that  would  slay  so 
Avell ;  and  of  the  white  money  that  might  be 
his  to  buy  fair  apparel  with,  and  a  great  black 
stallion  accoutred  with  trappings  wrought  with 
gold,  and  a  bed  of  down ;  and  of  white  hands, 
and  white  breasts,  and  the  white  song  of 
youth. 

He  had  not  gone  with  the  Frankish  prince. 

322 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

But  he  dreamed  often.  It  was  on  a  day  of 
dream  that  he  lay  on  his  back  in  the  hot  grass 
upon  a  dune,  near  where  the  cells  of  the 
monks  were.  The  sun-glow  bathed  the  isle 
in  a  golden  haze.  The  strait  was  a  shimmer- 
ing dazzle,  and  the  blue  wavelets  that  made 
curves  in  the  soft  white  sand  seemed  to  spill 
gold  flakes  and  change  them  straightway  into 
little  jets  of  foam  or  bubbles  of  rainbow- 
spray.  Cathal  had  made  a  song  for  his  de- 
light. His  pain  was  less  when  he  had  made 
it.  Now,  lying  there,  and  dreaming  at  times 
of  the  words  of  the  Prankish  prince,  and  re- 
membering at  times  the  stranger  words  of  the 
old  pagan  helot,  Neis,  who  had  come  with  him 
out  of  the  north,  he  felt  fire  burn  in  his  veins ; 
and  he  sang: 

O  where  in  the  north,  or  where  in  the  south,  or 

where  in  the  east  or  west 
Is  she   who   hath   the   flower-white   hands   and   the 

swandown  breast? 
O,  if  she  be  west,  or  east  she  be,  or  in  the  north  or 

south, 
A  sword  will  leap,  a  horse  will  prance,  ere  I  win  to 

Honey-Mouth. 

She  has  great  eyes,  like  the  doe  on  the  hill,  and  warm 
and  sweet  she  is, 

O,  come  to  me,  Honey-Mouth,  bend  to  me,  Honey- 
Mouth,  give  me  thy  kiss! 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

White  Hands  her  name  is,  where  she  reigns  amid  the 

princes  fair: 
White    hands    she    moves    like    swimming    swans 

athrough  her  dusk-wave  hair: 
White  hands  she  puts  about  my  heart,  white  hands 

fan  up  my  breath : 
White  hands  take  out  the  heart  of  me,  and  grant  me 

hfe  or  death ! 

White  hands  make  better  songs  than  hymns,  white 

hands  are  young  and  sweet : 
O,  a  sword  for  me,  O  Honey-Mouth,  and  a  war-horse 

fleet! 

O  wild  sweet  eyes!  O  glad  wild  eyes!  O  mouth,  how 
sweet  it  is! 

O,  come  to  me,  Honey-Mouth!  bend  to  me,  Honey- 
Mouth!  give  me  thy  kiss! 

When  he  had  ceased  "he  saw  a  shadow  fall 
upon  the  white  sand  beyond  the  dune.  He 
looked  up,  and  beheld  Colum  the  Saint. 

"  Who  taught  you  that  song  ? "  said  the 
white  holy  one,  in  a  voice  hard  and  stern. 

"  No  one,  O  Colum." 

"  Then  the  Evil  One  is  indeed  here. 
Cathal,  I  promised  that  you  would  be  having 
a  holy  name  soon,  but  that  name  I  will  not 
be  giving  you  now.  You  must  come  to  me 
in  sackcloth  and  with  dust  upon  your  head, 
with  pain  upon  you,  and  with  deep  grief  in 
your  heart.     Then  only  shall  I  bless  you  be- 

324 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

fore  the  brothers  and  call  you  Cathal  Gille- 
Mhoiee,  Cathal  the  Servant  of  Mary." 

A  bitter,  sad  waiting  it  was  for  him  who 
had  fire  in  his  young  blood  and  was  told  to 
weave  frost  there,  and  to  put  silence  upon  the 
welling  song  in  his  heart.  But  at  the  end  of 
the  week  Cathal  was  a  holy  monk  again,  and 
sang  the  hymns  that  Colum  had  taught 
him. 

It  was  on  the  eve  of  the  day  when  Colum 
blessed  him  before  the  brethren,  and  called 
him  Gille-Mhoiee,  that  he  walked  alone, 
brooding  upon  the  evil  of  women  and  the 
curse  they  brought,  and  praying  to  Mary  to 
save  him  from  the  sins  of  which  he  scarce 
knew  the  meaning.  On  his  way  back  to  his 
cell  he  passed  old  Neis,  the  helot,  who  said 
to  him  mockingly: 

"  It  is  a  good  thing  that  sorrow,  Cathal 
mac  Art — and  yet,  sure,  it  is  true  that  but  for 
the  hot  love  the  slain  man  your  father  had  for 
Foam  that  was  your  mother,  you  would  not 
be  here  to  praise  your  God  or  serve  the 
woman  whom  the  Arch-Druid  yonder  says  is 
the  Mother  of  God." 

Cathal  bade  the  man  eat  silence,  or  it 
would  go  ill  with  him.  But  the  words 
rankled.  That  night  in  his  cell  he  woke,  with 
on  his  lips  his  own  sinful  words : 

325 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

White  hands  make  better  songs  than  hymns,  white 
hands  are  young  and  sweet ; 

O,  a  sword  for  me,  O  Honey-Mouth,  and  a  war- 
horse  fleet! 

On  the  morrow  he  went  to  Colum  and  told 
him  that  the  Evil  One  would  not  give  him 
peace.  That  night  the  Saint  bade  him  make 
ready  to  go  east  to  the  Isle  of  Arran — the 
sole  isle,  then,  where  the  Pictish  folk  would 
let  the  white  robes  of  the  Culdees  go  scathe- 
less. To  the  holy  Molios  he  was  to  go,  him 
that  dwelled  in  the  sea-cave  of  the  Isle  of  the 
Peak,  that  men  already  called  the  Holy  Isle 
because  of  the  preaching  and  the  miracles  of 
Molios. 

"  He  is  a  wise  man,"  said  Colum  to  him- 
self, "  and  he  was  a  pagan  Cruithne  once,  and 
a  prince  at  that,  and  he  knows  the  sweetness 
of  sin,  and  will  keep  Cathal  away  from  the 
snares  that  are  set.  With  fasting,  and  much 
peril  by  day  and  weariness  by  night,  the  blood 
of  the  youth  will  forget  the  songs  the  Evil 
One  has  put  into  his  mind  and  it  will  sing 
holy  hymns.  Great  will  be  the  glory  Cathal 
Gille-Mhoiee  will  be  a  holy  man  while  he  has 
yet  his  youth  upon  him ;  and  he  will  be  a 
martyr  to  the  flesh  by  day  and  by  night  and 
by  night  and  by  day,  till  the  heathen  put  him 
to  death  because  of  the  faith  that  is  his." 

326 


Catlial  of  the  IVoods 

Thus  it  was  that  Cathal  was  blessed  by 
Colum,  and  sent  east  among  the  wild  Picts. 

It  was  with  joy  that  he  served  Molios.  For 
four  months  he  gave  him  all  he  had  to  give. 
The  old  saint  passed  word  to  Cohini  that 
Cathal  was  a  saint  and  was  assured  of  the 
crown  of  martyrdom,  and  lovingly  he  urged 
that  the  youth  should  be  sent  to  the  Isle  of 
Mist  in  the  north,  the  great  isle  that  was  ruled 
by  Scathach  the  Queen.  There,  at  the  last 
Summer-sailing,  the  pagans  had  flayed  a 
monk  alive.  A  fair  happy  end :  and  Cathal 
was  now  worthy — and  withal  might  triumph, 
and  might  even  convert  the  heathen  queen. 
"  She  is  wondrous  fair  to  see,"  he  added, 
"  and  Cathal  is  a  comely  youth." 

But  Colum  had  answered  that  the  young 
monk  was  to  bide  where  he  was,  and  to  seek 
to  win  souls  in  the  pagan  Isle  of  Arran,  where 
the  Cross  was  still  feared. 

But  with  the  coming  of  May  and  golden 
weather,  the  blood  of  Cathal  grew  warm.  At 
times,  even,  he  dreamed  of  the  Prankish 
prince  and  the  evil  sweet  words  he  had  said. 

Then  a  day  of  the  days  came,  Molios  and 
Cathal  went  to  a  hill-diin  where  the  Pict 
chieftain  lived,  and  converted  him  and  all  the 
people  in  the  dun  and  all  in  the  rath  that  was 
beyond  the  diin.     That  eve  the  daughter  of 

327 


Catlial  of  the  Woods 

the  warrior  came  upon  Cathal  walking  in  a 
solitary  place,  among  the  green  pines  beyond 
the  rath.  She  was  most  sweet  to  look  upon : 
tall  and  fair,  with  eyes  like  the  sea  in  a  cloud- 
less noon,  and  hair  like  westward  wheat 
turned  back  upon  itself. 

"  What  is  the  name  men  call  you  by,  young 
Druid  ? "  she  said.  "  I  am  Ardanna,  the 
daughter  of  Ecta." 

"  Your  beauty  is  sweet  to  look  upon,  Ar- 
danna. I  am  Cathal  the  son  of  Art  the  son 
of  Aodh  of  the  race  of  Alpein,  from  the  isles 
of  the  sea.  But  I  am  not  a  Druid.  I  am  a 
priest  of  Christ,  a  servant  of  Mary  the  Mother 
of  God^  and  a  son  of  God." 

Ardanna  looked  at  him.  A  flush  came  into 
his  face.  In  his  eyes  the  same  light  flamed 
that  was  there  when  the  Prankish  prince  told 
him  of  the  delights  of  the  world. 

"  Is  it  true,  O  Cathal,  that  the  Druids— that 
the  priests  of  Christ  and  the  two  other  gods, 
the  white-robed  men  whom  we  call  Culdees, 
and  of  whom  you  are  one,  is  it  true  that  they 
will  have  nought  to  do  with  women  ?  " 

Cathal  looked  upon  the  woman  no  more,  but 
on  the  ground  at  his  feet. 

"  It  is  true,  Ardanna." 

The  girl  laughed.  It  was  a  low,  sweet, 
mocking   laugh,    but   it   went    along   Cathal's 

328 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

blood  like  cloud-fire  along  the  sky.  It  was  to 
him  as  though  somewhat  he  had  not  seen  was 
revealed. 

"  And  is  it  a  true  thing  that  you  holy  men 
look  at  women  askance,  and  as  snares  of  peril 
and  evil?  " 

"  It  is  true,  Ardanna ;  but  not  so  upon  those 
who  are  sisters  of  Christ,  and  whose  eyes  are 
upon  heavenly  things." 

"  But  what  of  those  who  are  not  sisters  of 
your  god,  and  are  only  women,  fair  to  look 
upon,   fair  to  woo,   fair  to  love?" 

Cathal  again  flushed.  His  eyes  were  still 
upon  the  ground.     He  made  no  answer. 

Ardanna  laughed  low. 

"  Cathal !  " 

"Yes,  fair  daughter  of  Ecta?" 

"  Is  it  never  longing  for  love  you  are  ?  " 

"  There  is  but  one  love  for  us  who  have 
taken  the  vows  of  chastity." 

"  What  is  chastity  ?  " 

Cathal  raised  his  eyes  and  glanced  at  Ar- 
danna. Her  dark-blue  eyes  looked  at  him 
pure  and  sweet,  though  a  smile  was  upon  her 
mouth.     He  sighed. 

"  It  is  the  sanctity  of  the  body,  Ardanna." 

"  I  do  not  understand/'  she  said  simply. 
"  But  tell  me  this,  poor  Cathal " 

"  Why  do  you  call  me  poor  Cathal  ?  " 

329 


Cathal  of  the  IVoods 

"  Because  you  have  put  your  manhood  from 
you — and  you  so  young,  and  strong,  and 
comely — and  are  not  a  warrior,  and  care 
neither  for  the  sword,  nor  the  chase,  nor  the 
harp,  nor  for  women." 

Cathal  was  troubled.  He  looked  again  and 
again  at  Ardanna.  The  sunset  light  was  in 
her  yellow  hair,  which  was  about  her  as  a 
glory.  He  had  seen  the  moon  as  wondrous 
pale  as  her  beautiful  face.  Like  lilies  her 
white  hands  were.  He  had  dreamed  of  that 
flamelight  in  the  eyes. 

"  I  care,"  he  said. 

She  drew  nearer,  and  leaned  a  little  for- 
ward, and  looked  at  him. 

"  You  are  good  to  look  upon,  Cathal — the 
comeliest  youth  I  have  ever  seen." 

The  monk  flushed.  This  was  the  devil- 
tongue  of  which  Colum  had  warned  him.  But 
how  sweet  the  words  were :  like  a  harp  that 
low  voice.  Sure,  sweeter  is  a  waking  dream 
than  a  dream  in  sleep. 

"  I  care,"  he  repeated  dully. 

"  Look,  Cathal." 

Slowly  he  raised  his  eyes.  As  his  gaze 
moved  upward  it  rested  on  the  white  breast 
which  was  like  sea-foam  swelling  out  of 
brown  sea-weed,  for  she  had  a  tanned  fawn- 
skin    belted    and    gold-claspt    over    the    white 

330 


Cathal  of  tJie  Woods 

robe  she  wore,  and  that  had  disparted  for  the 
warm  air  to  play  upon  her  bosom. 

It  troubled  him.  He  let  his  eyes  fall  again. 
The  red  was  on  his  face. 

"  Cathal !  " 

"Yes,  Ardanna." 

"  And  you  will  never  put  your  kiss  upon  a 
woman's  lips?  Never  put  your  heart  upon 
a  woman's  heart?  Is  it  of  cold  sea  water  you 
are  made — for  even  the  running  water  in  the 
streams  is  warmed  by  the  sun?  Tell  me, 
Cathal,  would  you  leave  Molios  the  Culdee, 
—if " 

The  monk  of  Christ  suddenly  flashed  his 
eyes  upon  the  woman, 

"If  what,  Ardanna?"  he  asked  abruptly; 
"if  what,  Ardanna  that  is  so  witching  fair?" 

"  If  /  loved  you,  Cathal  ?  If  I,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Ecta  the  chief,  loved  you,  and  took  you 
to  be  my  man,  and  you  took  me  to  be  your 
woman,  would  you  be  content  so  ? " 

He  stared  at  her  as  one  in  a  dream.  Then 
suddenly  all  the  foolish  madness  that  had 
been  put  upon  him  by  Colum  fell  away. 
What  did  these  old  men,  Colum  and  Molios, 
know?  It  is  only  the  young  who  know  what 
Hfe  is.  They  were  old,  and  their  blood  was 
gelid. 

He  put  up  his  arms,  as  though  in  prayer. 

331 


Catlial  of  the  IVoods 

Then  he  smiled.  Ardanna  saw  a  Hght  in  his 
eyes  that  sprang  into  her  heart  and  sang  a 
song  there  that  whirled  in  her  ears  and  daz- 
zled her  eyes  and  made  her  feel  as  though 
she  had  fallen  over  a  great  height  and  were 
still  falling. 

Cathal  was  no  longer  pale,  A  red  flame 
burned  in  either  cheek.  The  sunset-light  be- 
hind him  filled  his  hair  with  fire.  His  eyes 
were  beacons. 

"Cathal,  Cathal!" 

"  Come,  Ardanna !  " 

That  was  all.  What  need  to  say  more. 
She  was  in  his  arms,  and  her  heart  throbbing 
against  his  that  leapt  in  his  body  like  a  wolf 
fallen  in  a  snare. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  She  lifted  her 
eyes,  and  his  brain  swung.  She  kissed  him, 
and  he  kissed  her  till  she  gave  a  low  cry  and 
gently  thrust  him  back.     He  laughed. 

"  Why  do  you  laugh,  Cathal  ?  " 

"  I  ?  It  is  I  who  laugh  now.  The  old  men 
put  a  spell  upon  me.  I  am  no  more  Cathal 
Gille-Mhoiee,  but  Cathal  mac  Art.  Nay,  I 
am  Cathal  Gille-Ardanna." 

With  that  he  plucked  the  branch  of  a  rowan 
that  grew  near.  He  stripped  it  of  its  leaves, 
and  threw  them  from  him  north,  south,  east, 
and  west. 

332 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

"Why  do  you  that,  Cathal-ahiinn  ? "  Ar- 
danna  asked,  looking  at  him  with  eyes  of  love, 
and  she  hke  a  summer  morning  there,  because 
of  the  sunshine  in  her  hair,  and  the  wild 
roses  on  her  face,  and  the  hill-tarn  blue  of 
her  eyes. 

"  These  are  all  the  hymns  that  Colum 
taught  me.  I  give  them  back.  I  am  know- 
ing them  no  more.  They  are  idle,  foolish 
songs." 

Then  the  monk  took  the  branch  and  broke 
it,  and  threw  the  pieces  upon  the  ground  and 
trampled  upon  them. 

"  Why  do  you  that,  Cathal-aluinn  ?  "  asked 
Ardanna,  wondering  at  him  with  her  home- 
call  eyes. 

"  That  is  the  branch  of  all  the  wisdom 
Colum  taught  me.  Old  Neis,  the  helot,  was 
wise.  It  is  a  madness,  all  that.  See,  it  is 
gone ;  it  is  beneath  my  feet.  I  am  a  man 
now." 

"But  O  Cathal,  Cathal!  this  very  day  of 
the  days,  Ecta,  my  father,  has  become  a  man 
of  the  Christ-faith,  him  and  his ;  and  he  would 
do  what  Molios  asked  now.  And  Molios 
would  ask  your  death." 

"  Death  is  a  dream." 

With  that  Cathal  leaned  forward  and  kissed 
Ardanna  upon  the   lips  twice.     "  A  kiss   for 

2>ZZ 


Catlial  of  the  Woods 

life  that,"  he  said ;  "  and  that  a  kiss  for 
death." 

Ardanna  laughed  a  low  laugh.  "  The 
monk  can  kiss,"  she  whispered ;  "  can  the 
monk  love  ?  " 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  they  went 
into  the  dim  dark  greenness. 

The  moon  rose  slowly,  a  globe  of  pale  gold- 
en fire  which  spilled  unceasingly  a  yellow 
flame  upon  the  suspended  billows  of  the  for- 
est. Star  after  star  emerged.  Deep  silence 
was  in  the  woods,  save  for  the  strange,  pas- 
sionate churring  of  a  night- jar,  where  he 
leaned  low  from  a  pine  branch  and  called  to 
his  mate,  whose  heart  throbbed  a  flight-away 
amid  the  dewy  shadows. 

The  wind  was  still.  The  white  rays  of  the 
stars  wandered  over  the  moveless,  over  the 
shadowless  and  breathless  green  lawns  of  the 
tree-tops. 

"  What  is  that  sound  ?  "  said  Ardanna,  a 
dim  shape  in  the  darkness,  where  she  lay  in 
the  arms  of  Cathal. 

"  1  know  not,"  said  the  youth ;  for  the 
fevered  blood  in  his  veins  sang  a  song  against 
his  ears, 

"  Listen !  " 

Cathal  listened.  He  heard  nothing.  His 
eyes  dreamed  again  into  the  silence. 

334 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

"  What  is  that  sound  ? "  she  whispered 
against  his  heart  once  again.  "  It  is  not  from 
the  sea,  nor  is  it  of  the  woods." 

"  It  is  the  moan  of  Heaven,"  answered 
Cathal  wearily ;  "  an  acain  Paras." 


II 


They  found  them  there  in  the  twilight  of 
the  dawn.  For  long  Ecta  looked  at  them 
and  pondered.  Then  he  glanced  at  Alolios. 
There  were  tears  in  the  heart  of  the  holy  man, 
but  in  his  eyes  a  deep  anger. 

"  Bind  him,"  said  Ecta. 

Cathal  woke  with  the  thongs.  His  gaze 
fell  upon  Molios.  He  made  no  sign,  and 
spake  never  a  word ;  but  he  smiled. 

"  What  now,  O  Molios  ?  "  asked  Ecta. 

"  Take  the  woman  away.  Do  with  her  as 
you  will — spare  or  slay.  It  matters  not.  She 
is  but  a  woman,  and  she  hath  wrought  evil 
upon  this  man.     To  slay  were  well." 

"  She  is  my  daughter." 

"  Spare,  then,  if  you  will ;  but  take  her 
away.  Give  her  to  a  man.  She  shall  never 
see  this  renegade  again." 

With  that,  two  men  led  Ardanna  away. 
She  gave  a  glance  at  Cathal,  who  smiled.     No 

335 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

tears  were  in  her  eyes ;  but  a  proud  fire  was 
there,  and  she  brooked  no  man's  hand  upon 
her,  and  walked  free. 

When  she  was  gone,  Molios  spake. 

"  Cathal,  that  was  called  Cathal  Gille- 
Mhoiee,  why  have  you  done  this  thing?  " 

"  Because  I  was  weary  of  vain  imaginings, 
and  I  am  young;  and  Ardanna  is  fair,  and  we 
loved." 

"  Such  love  is  death." 

"  So  be  it,  Molios.  Such  death  is  sweet  as 
love." 

"  No  ordinary  death  shalt  thou  have,  blas- 
phemer. Yet  even  now  I  would  be  merciful  if 
I  could.     Dost  thou  call  upon  God  ?  " 

"  I  call  upon  the  gods  of  my  fathers." 

"  Fool,  they  shall  not  save  you." 

"  Nevertheless,  I  call.  I  have  nought  to  do 
with  thy  three  gods,  O  Christian." 

"  Hast  thou  no  fear  of  hell  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  warrior,  and  the  son  of  my  father, 
and  of  a  race  of  heroes.     Why  should  I  fear  ?  " 

Molios  brooded  a  while. 

"  Take  him,"  he  said  at  last,  "  and  bury  him 
alive  where  his  gods  perchance  will  hear  his 
cries  and  come  and  save  him  !  Find  me  a  hol- 
low tree." 

"  There  is  a  great  oak  near  here,"  said  Ecta, 
wondering,  "  a  great  hollow  oak  whose  belly 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

would  hold  five  men^  each  standing  upon  the 
other." 

With  that  he  led  them  to  an  ancient  tree. 

"  Dost  thou  repent,  Cathal  ?  "  Molios  asked. 

"Ay,"  the  young  man  answered  grimly; 
"  I  repent.  I  repent  that  I  wasted  the 
good  days  serving  you  and  your  three  false 
gods." 

"  Blaspheme  no  more.  Thou  knowest  that 
these  three  are  one  God." 

Cathal  laughed  mockingly. 

"  Hearken  to  him,  Ecta,"  he  cried  ;  "  this  old 
Druid  would  have  you  believe  that  two  men 
and  a  woman  make  one  person !  Believe  that 
if  you  will !     As  for  me,  I  laugh." 

But  with  that,  at  a  sign  from  Molios,  they 
lifted  and  slung  him  amid  the  branches  of  the 
oak,  and  let  him  slide  feet  foremost  into  the 
deep  hollow  heart  of  the  tree. 

When  the  law  was  done,  Molios  bade  all 
near  kneel  in  a  circle  round  the  oak.  Then 
he  prayed  for  the  soul  of  the  doomed  man. 
As  he  ended  this  prayer,  a  laugh  flew  up 
among  the  high  wind-swayed  leaves.  It  was 
as  though  an  invisible  bird  were  there,  mock- 
ing like  a  jay. 

One  by  one,  with  bowed  heads,  Molios  and 
£cta  and  those  with  him  withdrew,  all  save 
two  young  men   who    were   bidden   to   stay. 

2>37 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

Upon  these  was  bond  laid,  that  they  would 
not  stir  from  that  place  for  three  days.  They 
were  to  let  none  draw  nigh :  and  no  food  was 
to  be  given  to  the  victim:  and  if  he  cried  to 
them,  they  were  to  take  no  heed, — nay,  not 
though  he  called  upon  God  or  the  Mother  of 
God  or  upon  the  White  Christ. 

All  that  day  there  was  no  sound  from  the 
hollow  tree.  At  the  setting  of  the  sun  a  black- 
bird lit  upon  a  small  branch  that  drooped  over 
the  aperture,  and  sang  a  brave  lilt.  Then  the 
dark  came,  and  the  moon  rose,  and  the  stars 
glimmered  through  the  dew. 

At  midnight  the  moon  was  overhead.  A 
flood  of  pale  gold  rays  lit  up  the  branches  of 
the  oak,  and  turned  the  leaves  into  a  lustrous 
bronze.  The  watchers  heard  a  voice  singing 
in  the  silence  of  the  night — a  voice  muffled 
and  obscure,  as  from  one  in  a  pit,  or  as  that 
of  a  shepherd  straying  in  a  narrow  corrie. 
Words  they  caught,  though  not  all;  and  this 
was  what  they  heard :  ^ 

O  yellow  lamp  of  loua  that  is  having  a  cold  pale  flame 

there, 
Put  thy  honey-sheen  upon  me  who  am  close-cavemed 

with  Death: 

^  loua  was  one  of  the  early  Celtic  names  of  the 
moon.  The  allusion  (in  the  fourth  line)  to  the  sun, 
in  the  feminine,  is  in  accordance  with  ancient  usage. 


Catlial  of  the  Woods 

Sure  it  is  nought  I  see  now  who  have  seen  too  much 
and  too  little: 

0  moon,  thy  breast  is  softer  and  whiter  than  hers 

who  bumeth  the  day. 

Put  thy  white  Hght  on  the  grave  where  the  dead  man 

my  father  is, 

And  waken  him,  waken  him,  wake! 
And  put  thy  soft  shining  on  the  breast  of  the  woman 

my  mother, 
So  that  she  stir  in  her  sleep  and  say  to  the  Viking 

beside  her, 
"Take  up  thy  sword,  and  let  it  lap  blood,  for  it  thirsts 

with  long  thirst." 

And  O  loua,  be  as  the  sea-calm  upon  the  hot  heart  of 

Ardanna,  the  girl: 
Tell  her  that  Cathal  loves  her,  and  that  memory  is 

sweeter  than  life. 

1  list  her  heart  beating  here  in  the  dark  and  the 

silence. 
And  it  is  not  lonely  I  am,  because  of  that,  and  re- 
membrance. 

O  yellow  flame  of  loua,  be  a  spilling  of  blood  out  of 

the  heart  of  Ecta, 
So  that  he  fall  dead,  inglorious,  slain  from  within,  as 

a  grey-beard ; 
And  light  a  fire  in  the  brain  of  Molios,  so  that  he  shall 

go  moonstruck. 
And  men  will  jeer  at  him,  and  he  will  die  at  the  last, 

idly  laughing. 

For  lo,  I  worship  thee,  loua;  and  if  you  can  give  my 
message  to  Neis, — 

339 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

Neis  the  helot  out  of  Aoidu,  who  is  in  lona,  bond- 
man to  Colum, — 

Tell  him  I  hail  you  as  Bandia,  as  god-queen  and 
mighty, 

And  that  he  had  the  wisdom  and  I  was  a  fool  with 
trickling  ears  of  moss. 

But  grant  me  this,  O  goddess,  a  bitter  moon-drink- 
ing for  Colum! 

May  he  have  the  moonsong  in  his  brain,  and  in  his 
heart  the  moonfire: 

Flame  bum  him  in  heart  of  flame,  and  may  he  wane 
as  wax  at  the  furnace. 

And  his  soul  drown  in  tears,  and  his  body  be  a 
nothingness  upon  the  sands! 

The  watchers  looked  at  each  other,  but  said 
no  word.  On  the  pale  face  of  each  was  fear 
and  awe.  What  if  this  new  god-teaching 
were  false,  and  if  Cathal  was  right,  and  the 
old  gods  were  the  lords  of  life  and  death? 
The  moonlight  fell  upon  them,  and  they  saw 
doubt  in  the  eyes  of  each  other.  Neither 
looked  at  the  white  fire.  Out  of  the  radiance, 
cold  e}'es  might  stare  upon  them :  when  at 
that,  sure  thcv  would  leap  to  the  woods,  laugh- 
ing wild,  and  be  as  the  beasts  of  the  forest. 

While  it  was  still  dark,  an  hour  before  the 
dawn,  one  of  the  twain  awoke  from  a  brief 
slumber.  His  gaze  wandered  from  vague 
tree  to  tree.  Thrice  he  thought  he  saw  dim 
shapes  glide  from  bole  to  bole  or  from  thicket 

340 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

to  thicket.  Suddenly  he  discerned  a  tall  figure, 
silent  as  a  shadow,  standing  at  the  verge  of 
the  glade. 

His  low  cry  aroused  his  companion. 

"  What  is  it,  Murta  ?  "  the  young  man  asked 
in  a  whisper. 

"  A  woman." 

When  they  looked  again  she  was  gone. 

"  It  was  one  of  the  Hidden  People,"  said 
Miirta,  with  restless  eyes  roaming  from  dusk 
to  dusk. 

"  How  are  you  for  knowing  that,  Murta?  " 

"  She  was  all  in  green,  just  like  a  green 
shadow  she  was,  and  I  saw  the  green  fire  in 
her  eyes." 

"  Have  you  not  thought  of  one  that  it  might 
be?" 

"Who?" 

"  Ardanna." 

With  that  the  young  man  rose  and  ran 
swiftly  to  the  place  where  he  had  seen  the  fig- 
ure. But  he  could  see  no  one.  Looking  at  the 
ground  he  was  troubled :  for  in  the  moonshine- 
dew  he  descried  the  imprint  of  small  feet. 

Thereafter  they  saw  or  heard  nought,  save 
the  sights  and  sounds  of  the  woodland. 

At  sunrise  the  two  youths  rose.  Murta 
lifted  up  his  arms,  then  sank  upon  his  knees 
with  bowed  head. 

341 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

"Why  do  you  do  that  forbidden  thing?" 
said  Diarmid,  that  was  his  companion.  "  Have 
you  forgotten  Cathal  the  monk  that  is  up  there 
alone  with  death  ?  If  Molios  the  holy  one  saw 
you  worshipping  the  Light  he  would  do  unto 
you  as  he  has  done  unto  Cathal." 

But  before  Miirta  answered  they  heard  the 
voice  of  Cathal  once  more — hoarse  and  dry 
it  was,  but  scarce  weaker  than  when  it  thrilled 
them  at  the  rising  of  the  moon. 

This  was  what  he  chanted  in  his  muffled 
voice  out  of  his  grave  there  in  the  hollow  oak : 

O  hot  yellow  fire  that  streams  out  of  the  sky,  sword- 
white  and  golden, 

Be  a  flame  upon  the  monks  who  are  praying  in  their 
cells  in  loua! 

Be  a  fire  in  the  veins  of  Colum,  and  the  hell  that  he 
preacheth  be  his, 

And  be  a  torch  to  the  men  of  Lochlin  that  they 
discover  the  isle  and  destroy  it! 

For  I  see  this  thing,  that  the  old  gods  are  the  gods 

that  die  not : 
All  else  is  a  seeming,  a  dream,  a  madness,  a  tide  ever 

ebbing. 
Glory  to  thee,  O  Grian,  lord  of  life,  first  of  the  gods 

Allfather, 
Swords  and  spears  are  thy  beams,  thy  breath  a  fire 

that  consumeth. 

And  upon  this  isle  of  A-rinn  send  sorrow  and  death 
and  disaster. 


CatJial  of  the  Ji'oods 

Upon  one  and  all  save  Ardanna,  who  gave  me  her 

bosom, 
Upon  one  and  all  send  death,  the  curse  of  a  death 

slow  and  swordless, 
From  Molios  of  the  Cave  to  Mtlrta  and  Diarmid  my 

doomsmen! 

At  that  Murta  moved  close  to  the  oak. 

"Hail,  O  Cathal!"  he  cried.  There  was 
silence. 

"  Art  thou  a  living  man  still,  or  is  it  the 
death  of  thee  that  is  singing  there  in  the  hol- 
low oak  ?  " 

"  My  limbs  perish,  but  I  die  not  yet,"  an- 
swered the  muffled  voice  that  had  greeted  the 
sun. 

"  I  am  Murta  mac  Murta  mac  Neisa,  and 
my  heart  is  sore  for  thee,  Cathal !  " 

There  was  no  word  to  this.  A  thrush  upon 
a  branch  overhead  lifted  its  wings,  sang  a  wild 
sweet  note,  and  swooped  arrowly  through  the 
greengloom  of  the  leaves. 

"  Cathal,  that  wert  a  monk,  which  is  the 
true  thing?  Is  it  Christ,  or  the  gods  of  our 
fathers  ?  " 

Silence.  Three  oaks  away  a  woodpecker 
thrust  its  beak  into  the  soft  bark,  tap-tapping, 
tap-tapping. 

"  Cathal,  is  it  death  you  are  having,  there  in 
the  dark  and  the  silence?  " 

343 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

Murta  strained  his  ears,  but  he  could  hear 
no  sound.  Over  the  woodlands  a  voice  floated, 
drowsy-warm  and  breast-white — the  voice  of 
a  cuckoo  calling  a  love-note  from  cool  green 
shadow  to  shadow  across  a  league  of  windless 
blaze. 

Then  Murta  that  was  a  singer,  went  to 
where  the  bulrushes  grew  by  a  little  tarn  that 
was  in  the  moss  an  arrow-flight  away.  He 
plucked  a  last-year  reed,  straight  and  brown, 
and  with  his  knife  cut  seven  holes  in  it.  With 
a  thimier  reed  he  scooped  the  hollow  clean. 

Thereupon  he  returned  to  the  oak.  Diar- 
mid,  who  had  begun  to  eat  of  the  food  that  had 
been  left  with  them,  sat  still,  with  his  eyes  upon 
him. 

MiJrta  put  his  hollow  reed  to  his  lips,  and 
he  played.  It  was  a  forlorn,  sweet  air  that 
he  had  heard  from  a  shepherding  woman  upon 
the  hills.  Then  he  played  a  burying-song  of 
the  islanders,  wherein  the  wash  of  the  sea  and 
the  rippling  of  the  waves  upon  the  shore  was 
heard.  Then  he  played  the  song  of  love,  and 
the  beating  of  hearts  was  heard,  and  sighs,  and 
a  voice  like  a  distant  bird-song  rose  and  fell. 

When  he  ceased,  a  voice  came  out  of  the 
hollow  oak — 

"  Play  me  a  death-song,  Miirta  mac  Miirta 
mac  Neisa." 

344 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

Murta  smiled,  and  he  played  again  the  song 
of  love. 

After  that  there  was  silence  for  a  brief 
while.  Then  Miirta  played  upon  his  reed  for 
the  time  it  takes  a  heron  to  mount  her  seventh 
spiral.  Then  he  ceased,  and  threw  away  the 
reed,  and  stood  erect,  staring  into  the  green- 
ness. In  his  eyes  was  a  strange  shine.  He 
sang: 

Out  of  the  wild  hills  I  am  hearing  a  voice,  O  Cathal! 
And  I  am  thinking  it  is  the  voice  of  a  bleeding  sword. 
Whose  is  that  sword  ?     I  know  it  well :  it  is  the  sword 

of  the  Slayer — 
Him  that  is  called  Death,  and  the  song  that  it  sings 

I  know: — 

0  where  is  Cathal  mac  Art,  that  is  the  cup  for  the  thirst 

of  my  lips? 

Out  of  the  cold  greyness  of  the  sea  I  am  hearing,  O 
Cathal, 

1  am  hearing  a  wave-muffled  voice,  as  of  one  who 

drowns  in  the  depths: 
Whose  is  that  voice.?     I  know  it  well:  it  is  the  voice 

of  the  Shadow — 
Her  that  is  called  the  Grave,  and  the  song  that  she 

sings  I  know: — 

0  where  is  Cathal  m.ac  Art,  he  has  warm,th  for  the  chill 

that  I  have? 

Out  of  the  hot  greenness  of  the  wood  I  am  hearing, 
O  Cathal, 

1  am  hearing  a  rustling  step,  as  of  one  stumbling 

blind. 

345 


Cathal  of  the  Jloods 

Whose  is  that  rustUng  step?     I  know  it  well:  the 

rustling  walk  of  the  Blind  One — 
She  that  is  called  Silence,  and  the  song  that  she  sings 

I  know: — 
O  where  is  Cathal  mac  Art,  that  has  tears  to  water  my 

stillness? 

After  that  there  was  silence.  Mtirta  moved 
away.  When  he  sat  by  Diarmid  and  ate,  there 
was  no  word  spoken.  Diarmid  did  not  look 
at  him,  for  he  had  sung  a  song-  of  death,  and 
the  shadow  was  upon  him.  He  kept  his  gaze 
upon  the  moss :  if  he  raised  his  eyes  might  he 
not  see  the  Slayer,  or  the  Shadow,  or  the  Blind 
One? 

Noon  came.  None  drew  nigh:  not  a  face 
was  seen  shadowily  afar  off.  Sometimes  the 
hoofs  of  the  deer  rustled  among  the  bracken. 
The  snarling  of  young  foxes  in  an  oak-root 
hollow  Avas  like  a  red  pulse  in  the  heat.  At 
times,  in  the  sheer  abyss  of  blue  sky  to  the 
north,  a  hawk  suspended:  in  the  white-blaze 
southerly  a  blotch  like  swirled  foam  appeared 
for  a  moment  at  long  intervals,  as  a  gannet 
swung  from  invisible  pinnacles  of  air  to  the 
invisible  sea. 

The  afternoon  drowsed  through  the  sun- 
flood.  The  green  leaves  grew  golden,  satu- 
rated with  light.  At  sundown  a  flight  of  wild 
doves  rose  out  of  the  pines,  wheeled  against 

346 


Cathal  of  the  JVoods 

the  shine  of  the  west  and  flashed  out  of  sight, 
flames  of  purple  and  rose,  of  foam-white  and 
pink. 

The  gloaming  came,  silverly.  The  dew  gHs- 
tened  on  the  fronds  of  the  ferns,  in  the  cups 
of  the  moss.  From  glade  to  glade  the  cuckoos 
called.  The  stars  emerged  delicately,  as  the 
eyes  of  fawns  shining- through  the  greengloom 
of  the  forest.  Once  more  the  moon  snowed  the 
easter  frondage  of  the  pines  and  oaks. 

No  one  came  nigh.  Not  a  sound  had  sighed 
from  the  oak  since  Murta  had  sung  at  the  gold- 
ening  of  the  day.  At  sunset  Murta  had  risen, 
to  lean,  intent,  against  the  vast  bole.  His  keen 
ears  caught  the  jar  of  a  beetle  burrowing 
beneath  the  bark.  There  was  no  other 
sound. 

At  the  fall  of  dark  the  watchers  heard  the 
confused  far  noise  of  a  festival.  It  waned  as 
a  lost  wind.  Dim  veils  of  cloud  obscured  the 
moon ;  a  low  rainy  darkness  suspended  over 
the  earth. 

Thus  went  the  second  day  and  the  second 
night. 

When,  after  the  weary  vigil  of  the  hours, 
dawn  came  at  last,  Mtirta  rose  and  struck  the 
oak  with  a  stone. 

"  Cathal !  "  he  cried,  "  Cathal !  " 

There  was  no  sound :  not  a  stir,  not  a  sigh. 

347. 


Catlial  of  the  IVocds 

"  Cathal !     Cathal !  " 

Murta  looked  at  Diarmid.  Then,  seeing  his 
own  thought  in  the  eyes  of  his  friend,  he  re- 
turned to  his  side. 

"  The  Blind  One  has  been  here,"  said  Diar- 
mid in  a  low  voice. 

At  noon  there  was  thunder,  and  great  heat. 
The  noise  of  rustling  wings  filled  the  under- 
wood. 

Diarmid  fell  into  a  deep  sleep.  When  the 
thunder  had  travelled  into  the  hills,  and  a  soft 
rain  fell,  Murta  climbed  into  the  branches  of 
the  oak.  He  stared  down  into  the  hollow,  but 
could  see  nothing  save  a  green  dusk  that  be- 
came brown  shadow,  and  brown  shadow  that 
grew  into  a  blackness. 

"  Cathal!  "  he  whispered. 

Not  a  breath  of  sound  ascended  like  smoke. 

"  Cathal !     Cathal !  " 

The  slow  drip  of  the  rain  slipped  and  pat- 
tered among  the  leaves.  The  cry  of  a  sea- 
bird  flying  inland  came  mournfully  across  the 
woods.  A  distant  clang,  as  of  a  stricken  anvil, 
iterated  from  the  barren  mountain  beyond  the 
forest. 

"  Cathal !     Cathal !  " 

Murta  broke  a  straight  branch,  stripped  it  of 
the  leaves,  and,  forcing  the  thicker  end  down- 
ward, let  it  fall  sheer. 

348 


Cathal  of  the  IVoods 

It  struck  with  a  dull,  soft  thud.  He  lis- 
tened :  there  was  not  a  sound. 

"  A  quiet  sleep  to  you,  monk,"  he  whispered, 
and  slipped  down  through  the  boughs,  and 
was  beside  Diarmid  again. 

At  dusk  the  rain  ceased.  A  cool  green 
freshness  came  into  the  air.  The  stars  were 
as  wind-whirled  fruit  blown  upward  from  the 
tree-tops.  The  moon,  full-orbed  and  with  a 
pulse  of  flame,  led  a  tide  of  soft  light  across 
the  brown  shores  of  the  world. 

The  vigils  of  the  watchers  were  over. 
Murta  and  Diarmid  rose.  Without  a  word 
they  moved  across  the  glade :  the  faint  rustle 
of  their  feet  stirred  the  bracken :  then  they  left  a 

the  undergrowth,  and  were  among  the  pines. 
Their  shadows  lapsed  into  the  obscure  wilder- 
ness. A  doe,  heavy  with  fawn,  lay  down 
among  the  dewy  fern,  and  was  at  peace  there. 


Ill 


At  midnight,  when  the  whole  isle  lay  in  the 
full  flood  of  the  moon,  Cathal  stirred. 

For  three  days  and  three  nights  he  had  been 
in  that  dark  hollow,  erect,  wedged  as  a  spear 
imbedded  in  the  jaWs  of  a  dead  beast.  He 
had  died  thrice :  with  hunger,  with  thirst,  with 

349 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

weariness.  Then  when  hunger  was  slain  in  its 
own  pain,  and  thirst  perished  of  its  own 
agony,  and  weariness  could  no  more  endure, 
he  stirred  with  the  death-throe. 

"  I  die,"  he  moaned. 

"  Die  not,  O  white  one,"  came  a  floating 
whisper,  he  knew  not  whence,  though  it  was 
to  him  as  though  the  crushing  walls  of  oak 
breathed  the  sound. 

"  I  die,"  he  gasped,  and  the  froth  bubbled 
upon  his  nether  lip.  With  that  his  last 
strength  went.  No  more  could  he  hold  his 
head  above  his  shoulder,  nor  would  his  feet 
sustain  him.  Like  a  stricken  deer  he  sank.  So 
thin  was  he,  so  worn,  that  he  slipt  into  a  nar- 
row crevice  where  dead  leaves  had  been,  and 
lay  there,  drowning  in  the  dark. 

Was  that  death,  or  a  cold  air  about  his  feet, 
he  wondered?  With  a  dull  pain  he  moved 
them :  they  came  against  no  tree-wood — the 
coolness  about  them  was  of  dewy  moss.  A 
wild  hope  flashed  into  his  mind.  With  feeble 
hands  he  strove  to  sink  farther  into  the  crevice. 

"  I  die,"  he  gasped,  "  I  die  now,  at  the  last." 

"  Die  not,  O  white  one,"  breathed  the  same 
low  sweet  whisper,  like  leaves  stirred  by  a  nest- 
ing bird. 

"  Save,  O  save,"  muttered  the  monk,  hoarse 
with  the  death-dew. 

350 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

Then  a  blackness  came  down  upon  him  from 
a  great  height,  and  he  swung  in  that  blank 
gulf  as  a  feather  swirled  this  way  and  that  in 
the  void  of  an  abyss. 

When  the  darkness  lifted  again,  Cathal  was 
on  his  back,  and  breathing  slow,  but  without 
pain.  A  sweet  wonderful  coolness  and  ease, 
that  he  knew  now  !  Where  was  he  ?  he  won- 
dered. Was  he  in  that  Paras  that  Colum  and 
Molios  had  spoken  of?  Was  he  in  Hy  Brasil, 
of  which  he  had  heard  Aodh  the  Harper  sing? 
Was  he  in  Tir-na'n-Og,  where  all  men  and 
women  are  young  for  evermore,  and  there  is 
joy  in  the  heart  and  peace  in  the  mind  and 
gladness  by  day  and  by  night  ? 

Why  was  his  mouth  so  cool,  that  had  burned 
dry  as  ash  ?  Why  were  his  lips  moist,  with  a 
bitter-sweet  flavour,  as  though  the  juice  of 
fruit  was  there  still? 

He  pondered,  with  closed  eyes.  At  last  he 
opened  them,  and  stared  upward.  The  pro- 
found black-blue  dome  of  the  sky  held  group 
after  group  of  stars  that  he  knew :  was  not 
that  sword  and  belt  yonder  the  sword-gear  of 
Fionn?  Yon  shimmering  cluster,  were  they 
not  the  dust  of  the  feet  of  Alldai  ?  That  leap- 
ing green  and  blue  planet,  what  could  it  be  but 
the  harp  of  Brigit,  where  she  sang  to  the 
gods? 

351 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

A  shadow  croesed  his  vision.  The  next 
moment  a  cool  hand  was  upon  his  eyes.  It 
brought  rest,  and  heaHng.  He  felt  the  blood 
move  in  his  veins :  his  heart  beat :  a  throbbing 
was  in  his  throat. 

Then  he  knew  that  he  had  strength  to  rise. 
With  a  great  effort  he  put  his  weariness  from 
off  him,  and  staggered  to  his  feet. 

Cathal  gave  a  low  sob.  A  fair  beautiful 
woman  stood  by  him. 

"  Ardanna !  "  he  cried,  though  even  as  the 
word  leaped  from  his  lips  he  knew  that  he 
looked  upon  no  Pictish  woman. 

She  smiled.  All  his  heart  was  glad  because 
of  that.  The  light  in  her  eyes  was  like  the 
fire  of  the  moon,  bright  and  wonderful.  The 
delicate  body  of  her  was  pale  green,  and  lumi- 
nous as  a  leaf,  with  soft  earth-brown  hair  fall- 
ing down  her  shoulders  and  over  the  swelling 
breast ;  even  as  the  small  green  mounds  over 
the  dead  the  two  breasts  were.  She  was  clad 
only  in  her  own  loveliness,  though  the  moon- 
shine was  about  her  as  a  garment. 

"  Like  a  green  leaf  :  like  a  green  leaf,"  Cathal 
muttered  over  and  over  below  his  breath. 

"  Are  you  a  dream  ?  "  he  asked  simply,  hav- 
ing no  words  for  his  wonder. 

"  No,  Cathal,  I  am  no  dream.     I  am  a  wom- 


an. 


352 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

"  A  woman  ?  But  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  you  have 
no  body  as  other  women  have :  and  I  see  the 
moonbeam  that  is  on  your  breast  shining  upon 
the  moss  behind  you  !  " 

"  Is  it  thinking  you  are,  poor  Cathal,  that 
there  are  no  women  and  no  men  in  the  world 
except  those  who  are  in  thick  flesh,  and  move 
about  in  the  suntide  ?  " 

Cathal  stared  wonderingly. 

"  I  am  of  the  green  people,  Cathal.  We  are 
of  the  woods.     I  am  a  woman  of  the  woods." 

"  Hast  thou  a  name^  fair  woman  ?  " 

"  I  am  called  Deoin."  ^ 

"  That  is  well.  Truly  '  Green  Breath  '  is  a 
good  name  for  thee.  Are  there  others  of  thy 
kin  in  this  place  ?  " 

"  Look!  "  and  at  that  she  stooped,  lifted  the 
dew  of  a  white  flower  in  the  moonshine,  and 
put  it  upon  his  eyes. 

Cathal  looked  about  him.  Everywhere  he 
saw  tall,  fair  pale-green  lives  moving  to  and 
fro:  some  passing  out  of  trees,  swift  and  silent 
as  rain  out  of  a  cloud  ;  some  passing  into  trees, 
silent  and  swift  as  shadows.  All  were  fair  to 
look  upon :  tall,  lithe,  graceful,  moving  this 
way  and  that  in  the  moonshine,  pale  green  as 
the  leaves  of  the  lime,  soft  shining,  with  radiant 
eyes,  and  delicate  earth-brown  hair. 

^  Deo-uaine. 

353 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

"  Who  are  these,  Deoin  ?  "  Cathal  asked  in  a 
low  whisper  of  awe. 

"  They  are  my  people :  the  folk  of  the 
woods :  the  green  people." 

"  But  they  come  out  of  trees :  they  come  and 
they  go  like  bees  in  and  out  of  a  hive." 

"  Trees  ?  That  is  3'^our  name  for  us  of  the 
woods.     Wc  are  the  trees." 

"  YoH  the  trees,  Deoin !     How  can  that  be  ?  " 

"  There  is  life  in  your  body.  Where  does 
it  go  when  the  body  sleeps,  or  when  the  sap 
rises  no  more  to  heart  or  brain,  and  there  is 
chill  in  the  blood,  and  it  is  like  frozen  water? 
Is  there  a  life  in  your  body?  " 

"  Ay,  so.     I  know  it." 

The  flesh  is  your  body;  the  tree  is  my 
body." 

"  Then  you  are  the  green  life  of  a  tree?  " 

"  I  am  the  green  life  of  a  tree." 

"And  these?" 

"  They  are  as  I  am." 

"  I  see  those  that  are  men  and  those  that 
are  women  and  their  offspring  too  I  see." 

"  They  are  as  I  am." 

"  And  some  are  crowned  with  pale  flowers." 

"They  love." 

"  And  hast  thou  no  crown,  Deoin,  who  art 
so  fair?" 

"  Neither  hast  thou,  Cathal,  though  thy  face 

354 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

is  fair.  Thy  body  I  cannot  see,  because  thou 
hast  a  husk  about  thee." 

With  a  low  laugh  Cathal  removed  his  rai- 
ment from  him.  The  whiteness  of  his  body 
was  like  a  flower  there  in  the  moonshine. 

"  That  shall  not  be  against  me,"  he  said. 
"  Truly,  I  am  a  man  no  longer,  if  thee  and 
thine  will  have  me  as  one  of  the  wood-folk." 

At  that  Deoin  called.  Many  green  phan- 
toms glided  out  of  the  trees,  and  others,  hand- 
in-hand,  flower-crowned,  crossed  the  glade. 

"  Look,  green  lives,"  Deoin  cried  in  her 
sweet  leaf-whisper,  rising  now  like  a  wind- 
song  among  birchen  boughs ;  "  look,  here  is 
a  human.  His  life  is  mine,  for  I  saved  him. 
I  have  put  the  moonshine  dew  upon  his  eyes. 
He  sees  as  we  see.  He  would  be  one  of  us, 
for  all  that  he  has  no  tree  for  his  body,  but 
flesh,  white  over  red." 

One  who  had  moved  thitherward  out  of  an 
ancient  oak  looked  at  Cathal. 

"  Wouldst  thou  be  of  the  wood-folk,  man?  " 

"  Ay,  fain  am  I ;  for  sure,  for  sure,  O  Druid 
of  the  trees." 

"  Wilt  thou  learn  and  abide  by  our  laws, 
the  first  of  which  is  that  none  may  stir  from 
his  tree  until  the  dusk  has  come,  nor  linger 
away  from  it  when  the  dawn  opens  grey  lips 
and  drinks  up  the  shadows  ?  " 

355 


Cathal  of  the  IVoods 

"  I  have  no  law  now  but  the  law  of  green 
life." 

"  Good.  Thou  shalt  live  with  us.  Thy 
home  shall  be  the  hollow  oak  where  thy  kin 
left  thee  to  die.  Why  did  they  do  that  evil 
deed?" 

"  Because  I  did  not  believe  in  the  new 
gods." 

"  Who  are  thy  gods,  man  whom  this  green 
one  here  calls  Cathal  ?  " 

"  They  are  the  Sun,  and  the  Moon,  and  the 
Wind,  and  others  that  I  will  tell  you  of." 

"  Hast  thou  heard  of  Keithoir  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  He  is  the  god  of  the  green  world.  He 
dreams,  and  his  dreams  are  Springtide  and 
Summertide  and  Appletide.  When  he  sleeps 
without  dream  there  is  winter." 

"  Have  you  no  other  god  but  this  earth- 
god?" 

"  Keithoir  is  our  god.     We  know  no  other," 

"  If  he  is  thy  god,  he  is  my  god." 

"  I  see  in  the  eyes  of  Deoin  that  she  loves 
thee,  Cathal  the  human.  Wilt  thou  have  her 
love?" 

Cathal  looked  at  the  girl.  His  heart  swam 
in  light. 

"  Ay,  if  Deoin  will  give  me  her  love,  my 
love  shall  be  hers," 

356 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

The  Annir-Coille  moved  forward  and 
brushed  softly  against  him  as  a  green  branch. 

He  put  his  arms  around  her.  She  had  a 
cool,  sweet  body  to  feel.  He  was  glad  she 
was  no  moonshine  phantom.  The  beating  of 
her  heart  against  his  made  a  music  that  filled 
his  ears. 

Deoin  stooped  and  plucked  white,  dewy 
flowers.  Of  these  she  wove  a  wreath  for 
Cathal.  He,  likewise,  plucked  the  white 
blooms,  and  made  a  coronal  of  foam  for  the 
brown  wave  of  her  hair. 

Then,  hand  in  hand,  they  fared  slowly  forth 
across  the  moonlit  glade.  None  crossed  their 
path,  though  everywhere  delicate  green  lives 
flitted  from  tree  to  tree.  They  heard  a  won- 
derful sweet  singing,  aerial,  with  a  ripple  as  of 
leaves  lipping  a  windy  shore  of  light.  A  green 
glamour  was  in  the  eyes  of  Cathal.  The  green 
fire  of  life  flamed  in  his  veins. 


IV 


Molios,  the  saint  of  Christ,  that  lived  in  the 
sea-cave  of  the  Isle  of  the  Peak,  so  that  even 
in  his  own  day  it  was  called  the  Holy  Isle, 
endured  to  a  great  age. 

Some  say  of  him  that  before  his  hair  was 

357 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

bleached  white  as  the  bog-cotton,  he  was  slain 
by  the  heathen  Picts,  or  by  the  fierce  summer- 
sailors  out  of  Lochlin.  But  that  is  an  idle 
tale.  His  end  was  not  thus.  A  Culdee,  who 
had  the  soul  of  a  bat,  feared  the  truth,  though 
that  gave  glor}^  to  God,  and  wrote  both  in  og- 
ham and  lambskin  the  truthless  tale  that 
Molios  went  forth  with  the  cross  and  was  slain 
in  a  north  isle. 

On  a  day  of  the  days  every  year,  Molios 
fared  to  the  Hollow  Oak  that  was  in  the  hill- 
forest  beyond  the  rath  of  Ecta  MacEcta. 
There  he  spake  long  upon  the  youth  that  had 
been  his  friend,  and  upon  how  the  Evil  One 
had  prevailed  with  Cathal,  and  how  the  islander 
had  been  done  to  death  there  in  the  oak.  Then 
he  and  all  his  company  sang  the  hymns  of 
peace,  and  great  joy  there  was  over  the  doom 
of  Cathal  the  monk,  and  many  would  have 
cleft  the  great  tree  or  burned  it,  so  that  the 
dust  of  the  sinner  might  be  scattered  to  the 
four  winds  :  only  this  was  banned  by  Molios. 

It  was  well  for  Cathal,  who  slept  there 
through  the  hours  of  light !  Deep  slumber 
was  his,  for  never  once  did  he  hear  the  noon- 
tide voices,  nor  ever  in  his  ears  was  the  long 
rise  and  fall  of  the  holy  hymns. 

But  when,  in  the  twentieth  year  after  Cathal 
had  been  thrust  into  the  hollow  oak,  Molios 

358 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

came  at  sundown,  being  weary  with  the  heat, 
the  saint  heard  a  low,  faint  laughter  issuing 
from  the  tree,  like  fragrance  from  a  flower. 

None  other  heard  it.  He  saw  that  with 
gladness.     Quietly  he  went  with  the  islanders. 

When  the  moon  was  over  the  pines,  and 
all  in  the  rath  slept,  Molios  arose'  and  went 
silently  back  into  the  forest. 

When  he  came  to  the  Doom-Tree  he  listened 
long,  with  his  ear  against  the  bark.  There 
was  no  sound. 

His  voice  was  old  and  quavering,  but  fresh 
and  young  in  the  courts  of  heaven,  when  it 
reached  there  like  a  fluttering  bird  tired  from 
long  flight.     He  sang  a  holy  hymn. 

He  listened.  There  was  no  laughter.  He 
was  glad  at  that.  All  had  been  a  dream,  for 
sure. 

Then  it  was  that  he  heard  once  again  the 
low,  mocking  laughter.  He  started  back, 
trembling. 

"  Cathal !  "  he  cried,  with  his  voice  like  a 
wuthering  wind. 

"  I  am  here,  O  Molios,"  said  a  voice  behind 
him. 

The  old  Culdee  turned,  as  though  arrow- 
nipped.  Before  him,  white  in  the  moonshine, 
stood  a  man,  naked. 

At  first,  Molios  knew  him  not.     He  was  so 

359 


Cathal  of  tlic  Woods 

tall  and  strong,  so  fair  and  wonderful.  Long 
locks  of  ruddy  hair  hung  upon  his  white 
shoulders :  his  eyes  were  lustrous,  and  had  the 
lovely,  soft  light  of  the  deer.  When  he  moved, 
it  was  swiftly  and  silently.  No  stag  upon  the 
hills  was  more  fair  to  see. 

Then,  slowly,  Cathal  the  monk  swam  into 
Cathal  of  the  Woods.  Molios  saw  him  whom 
he  knew  of  old,  as  a  blue  flame  is  visible  within 
the  flame  of  yellow. 

"  I  am  here,  O  Molios." 

Strange  was  the  voice :  faint  and  far  the 
tone  of  it :  yet  it  was  that  of  a  living  man. 

"  Is  it  a  spirit  you  are,  Cathal  ?  " 

"  I  am  no  spirit.  I  am  Cathal  the  monk 
that  was,  Cathal  the  man  now." 

"  How  came  you  out  of  hell,  you  that  are 
dead,  and  the  dust  of  whose  crumbling  bones 
is  in  the  hollow  of  this  oak  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  hell,  Culdee." 

"  No  hell !  "  Molios  the  Saint  stared  at  the 
woodman  in  blank  amaze. 

"  No  hell,"  he  said  again ;  "  and  is  there  no 
heaven  ?  " 

"  A  hell  there  is,  and  a  heaven  there  is :  but 
not  what  Colum  taught,  and  you  taught." 

"  Doth  Christ  live  ?  " 

"  I  know  not." 

"And  Mary?" 

360 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

"  I  know  not." 

"And  God  the  Father?" 

"  I  know  not." 

"  It  is  a  lie  that  you  have  upon  your  lips. 
Sure,  Cathal,  you  shall  be  dead  indeed  soon, 
to  the  glory  of  God.  For  I  shall  have  thy 
dust  scattered  to  the  four  winds,  and  thy  bones 
consumed  in  flame,  and  a  stake  be  driven 
through  the  place  where  thou  wast." 

Once  more  Cathal  laughed. 

"  Go  back  to  thy  sea-cave,  Molios.  Thou 
hast  much  to  learn.  Brood  there  upon  the 
ways  of  thy  God  before  thou  judgest  if  He 
knoweth  no  more  than  thou  dost.  And  see,  I 
will  show  you  a  wonder.  Only,  first,  tell  me 
this  one  thing.  What  of  Ardanna  whom  I 
loved?" 

"  She  was  accursed.  She  would  not  believe. 
When  Ecta  took  the  child  from  her,  that  was 
born  in  sin,  to  have  the  water  put  upon  it  with 
the  sign  of  the  Cross,  she  went  north  beyond 
the  Hill  of  the  Pinnacles.  There  she  saw  the 
young  king  of  the  Picts  of  Argyll,  and  he  loved 
her,  and  she  went  to  his  dun.  He  took  her 
to  his  rath  in  the  north,  and  she  was  his  queen. 
He,  and  she,  and  the  two  sons  she  bore  to  him 
are  all  under  the  hill-moss  now :  and  their 
souls  are  in  hell." 

Cathal  laughed,  low  and  mocking. 

361 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

"  It  is  a  good  hell  that,  I  am  thinking, 
Molios.  But  come  ...  I  will  show  you  a  won- 
der." 

With  that  he  stooped,  and  took  the  moon- 
shine dew  out  of  a  white  flower,  and  put  it 
upon  the  eyes  of  the  old  man. 

Then  Molios  saw. 

And  what  he  saw  was  a  strangeness  and 
a  terror  to  him.  For  everywhere  were  green 
lives,  fair  and  comely,  gentle-eyed,  lovely,  of 
a  soft  shining.  From  tree  to  tree  they  flitted, 
or  passed  to  and  fro  from  the  tree-boles,  as 
wild  bees  from  their  hives. 

Beside  Cathal  stood  a  woman.  Beautiful 
she  was,  with  eyes  like  stars  in  the  gloaming. 
All  of  green  flame  she  seemed,  though  the  old 
monk  saw  her  breast  rise  and  fall,  and  the  light 
lift  of  her  earth-brown  hair  by  a  wind-breath 
eddying  there,  and  the  hand  of  her  clasped 
in  that  of  Cathal.  Beyond  her  were  fair  and 
beautiful  beings,  lovely  shapes  like  unto  men 
and  women,  but  soulless,  though  loving  life 
and  hating  death,  which,  of  a  truth,  is  all  that 
the  vain  human  clan  does. 

"Who  is  this  woman,  Cathal?"  asked  the 
saint,  trembling. 

"  It  is  Deoin,  whom  I  love,  and  who  has 
given  me  life." 

"  And    these    .  .  .   that   are   neither    green 

362 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

phantoms  out  of  trees,  nor  yet  men  as  we 
are?" 

"  These  are  the  offspring  of  our  love." 

Molios  drew  back  in  horror. 

But  Cathal  threw  up  his  arms,  and  with  glad 
eyes  cried : 

"  O  green  flame  of  life,  pulse  of  the  world ! 
O  Love !     O  Youth  !     O  Dream  of  Dreams  !  " 

"O  bitter  grief,"  Molios  cried,  "O  bitter 
grief,  that  I  did  not  slay  thee  utterly  on  that 
day  of  the  days !  Flame  to  thy  flesh,  and  a 
stake  through  thy  belly — that  is  the  doom  thou 
shouldst  have  had !  My  ban  upon  thee,  Cathal, 
that  was  a  monk,  and  now  art  a  wild  man  of 
the  woods :  upon  thee,  and  thy  Annir-Coille, 
and  all  thy  brood,  I  put  the  ban  of  fear  and 
dread  and  sorrow,  a  curse  by  day  and  a  curse 
by  night !  " 

But  with  that  a  great  dizziness  swam  into  the 
brain  of  the  saint,  and  he  fell  forward,  and  lay 
his  length  upon  the  moss,  and  there  was  no 
sight  to  his  eyes,  or  hearing  to  his  ears,  or 
knowledge  upon  him  at  all  until  the  rising  of 
the  sun. 

When  the  yellow  light  was  upon  his  face  he 
rose.  There  was  no  face  to  see  anywhere. 
Looking  in  the  dew  for  the  myriad  feet  that 
had  been  there,  he  saw  none. 

The  old  man  knelt  and  prayed. 

3^3 


Cathal  of  the  IVoods 

At  the  first  praying  God  filled  his  heart  with 
peace.  At  the  second  praying  God  filled  his 
heart  with  wonder.  At  the  third  praying 
God  whispered  mysteriously,  and  he  knew. 
Humble  in  his  new  knowledge,  he  rose.  The 
tears  were  in  his  old  eyes.  He  went  up  to  the 
Hollow  Oak,  and  blessed  it,  and  the  wild  man 
that  slept  within  it,  and  the  Annir-Coille  that 
Cathal  loved,  and  the  offspring  of  their  love. 
He  took  the  curse  away,  and  he  blessed  all  that 
God  had  made. 

All  the  long  weary  way  to  the  shore  he  went 
as  one  in  a  dream.  Wonder  and  mystery  were 
in  his  eyes. 

At  the  shore  he  entered  the  little  coracle 
that  brought  him  daily  from  the  Holy  Isle,  a 
triple  arrow-flight  seaward. 

A  child  sat  in  it,  playing  with  pebbles.  It 
was  Ardan,  the  son  of  Ardanna. 

"  Ardan  mac  Cathal,"  began  the  saint,  weary 
now,  but  glad  with  a  strange  new  gladness. 

"  Who  is  Cathal  ?  "  said  the  boy. 

"  He  that  was  thy  father.  Tell  me,  Ardan, 
hast  thou  ever  seen  aught  moving  in  the  woods 
— green  lives  out  of  the  trees?" 

"  I  have  seen  a  green  shine  come  out  of  the 
trees." 

Molios  bowed  his  head. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  as  my  son,  Ardan  ;  and  when 

364 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

thou  art  a  man  thou  shalt  choose  thy  own  way, 
and  let  no  man  hinder  thee." 

That  night  MoHos  could  not  sleep.  Hear- 
ing the  loud  wash  of  the  sea,  he  went  to  the 
mouth  of  the  cave.  For  a  long  while  he 
watched  the  seals  splashing  in  the  silver  radi- 
ance of  the  moonshine.     Then  he  called  them. 

"  O  seals  of  the  sea,  come  hither !  " 

At  that  all  the  furred  swimmers  drew  near. 

"  Is  it  for  the  curse  you  give  us  every  year 
of  the  years,  O  holy  Molios  ?  "  moaned  a  great 
black  seal. 

"  O  Ron  dubh,  it  is  no  curse  I  have  for  thee 
or  thine,  but  a  blessing,  and  peace.  I  have 
learned  a  wonder  of  God,  because  of  an  Annir- 
Coille  in  the  forest  that  is  upon  the  hill.  But 
now  I  will  be  telling  you  the  white  story  of 
Christ." 

So  there,  in  the  moonshine,  with  the  flowing 
tide  stealing  from  his  feet  to  his  knees,  the 
old  saint  preached  the  gospel  of  love.  The 
seals  crouched  upon  the  rocks,  with  their  great 
brown  eyes  filled  with  glad  tears. 

When  Molios  ceased,  each  slipped  again  into 
the  shadowy  sea.  All  that  night,  while  he 
brooded  upon  the  mystery  of  Cathal  and  the 
Annir-Coille,  with  deep  knowledge  of  hidden 
things,  and  a  heart  filled  with  the  wonder  and 
mystery  of  the  world,  he  heard  them  splash- 

365 


Cathal  of  the  Woods 

ing  to  and  fro  in  the  moon-dazzle,  and  calling, 
one  to  the  other,  "  We,  too,  are  the  sons  of 
God." 

At  dawn  a  shadow  came  into  the  cave.  A 
white  frost  grew  upon  the  face  of  Molios. 
Still  was  he,  and  cold,  when  Ardan,  the  child, 
awoke.  Only  the  white  lips  moved.  A  ray  of 
the  sun  slanted  across  the  sea,  from  the  great 
disc  of  whirling  golden  flame  new  risen.  It 
fell  softly  upon  the  moving  lips.  They  were 
still  then,  and  Ardan  kissed  them  because  of 
the  smile  that  was  there. 


366 


SEANACHAS 


THE   SONG    OF   THE   SWORD 

THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE    CULDEES 

MIRCATH 

THE   SAD   QUEEN 

THE    LAUGHTER    OF    SCATHACH    THE    QUEEN 

AHEZ   THE   PALE 

THE  KING  OF  YS  AND  DAHUT  THE  RED 


Seanachas 


THE   SONG   OF   THE    SWORD 

These  are  of  the  Seanachas  ^  told  me  by  Ian 
Mor,  before  the  flaming  peats,  at  a  hill-sheal- 
ing,  in  a  season  when  the  premature  snows 
found  the  bracken  still  golden,  and  the  ptar- 
migan with  their  autumn  browns  no  more  than 
flecked  and  mottled  with  grey. 

He  has  himself  now  a  quieter  sleep  than  the 
sound  of  that  falling  snow,  and  it  is  three 
years  since  his  face  became  as  white  and  as 
cold. 

He  had  pleasure  in  telling  sgucl  after  sgucl 
of  the  ancient  days.  Far  more  readily  at  all 
times  would  he  repeat  stories  of  this  dim  past 
he  loved  so  well  than  the  more  intimate  tales 
which  had  his  own  pulse  beating  in  them,  that 
I  have  given  elsewhere.  Often  he  would  look 
up  from  where  he  held  his  face  in  his  hands  as 
he  brooded  into  the  dull,  steadfast  flame  that 
consumed  the  core  of  the  peats;  and  without 

'The  word  "Seanachas"  means  either  tradition- 
ary lore  or  the  "telling  of  tales  of  olden  time,"  and 
it  is  in  this  sense  that  it  is  used  here. 

369 


Seanachas 

preamble,  and  with  words  in  no  apparent  way- 
linked  to  those  last  spoken,  would  narrate 
some  brief  episode,  and  always  as  one  who 
had  witnessed  the  event.  Sometimes,  indeed, 
these  brief  tales  were  like  waves ;  one  saw 
them  rise,  congregate,  and  expand  in  a  dark 
billow — and  the  next  moment  there  was  a 
vanishing  puff  of  spray,  and  the  billow  had 
lapsed. 

I  cannot  recall  many  of  these  fugitive  tales 
— seanachas,  as  he  spoke  of  them  collectively, 
for  each  sgeiil  was  of  the  past,  and  had  its 
roots  in  legendary  lore — but  of  those  that  re- 
mained with  me,  here  are  four.  All  came  upon 
me  as  birds  flying  in  the  dark:  I  knew  not 
whence  they  came,  or  upon  what  wind  they  had 
steered  their  mysterious  course.  They  were 
there,  that  was  all.  Ancient  things  come 
again  in  lan's  brain,  or  recovered  out  of  the 
dim  days,  and  seen  anew  through  the  wonder- 
lens  of  his  imagination. 

It  was  in  a  white  June,  as  they  call  it,  in 
the  third  year  after  the  pirates  of  Lochlin  had 
fed  the  corbies  of  the  Hebrid  Isles,  that  the 
summer-sailors  once  more  came  down  the 
Minch  of  Skye. 

An  east  wind  blew  fresh  from  the  moun- 
tains,  though   between   dawn   and   sunrise  it 

370 


Seanachas 

veered  till  it  chilled  itself  upon  the  granite 
peaks  of  the  Cuchullins,  and  then  leaped  north- 
westward with  the  white  foam  of  its  feet 
caught  from  behind  by  the  sun-glint. 

The  vikings  on  board  the  Svart-Alf  laughed 
at  that.  The  spray  flew  from  the  curved  black 
prow  of  the  great  galley,  and  the  wake  danced 
in  the  dazzle — the  sea-cream  that  they  loved 
to  see. 

Tall  men  they  were,  and  comely.  Their 
locks  of  yellow  or  golden  or  ruddy  hair,  some- 
times braided,  sometimes  all  acurl  like  a  chest- 
nut tree  bud-breaking  in  April,  sometimes 
tangled  like  sea-wrack  caught  in  a  whirl  of 
wind  and  tide,  streamed  upon  their  shoulders. 
In  their  blue  eyes  was  a  shining  as  though 
there  were  torches  of  white  flame  behind  them, 
and  that  shining  was  mild  or  fierce  as  home 
or  blood  filled  their  brain. 

The  Svart-Alf  was  the  storm-bird  of  a  fleet 
of  thirty  galleys  which  had  set  forth  from 
Lochlin  under  the  raven-banner  of  Olaus  the 
White.  The  vikings  had  joyed  in  a  good  far- 
ing. Singing  south  winds  had  blown  them  to 
the  Faroe  Isles,  where  from  Magnus  Cleft- 
Hand  they  had  good  cheer,  and  the  hire  of 
three  men  who  knew  the  Western  Isles,  and 
had  been  with  the  sea-kings  who  had  harried 
them  here  and  there  again  and  again. 

371 


Seanachas 

From  Magnus-stead  they  went  forth  swelled 
with  mead  and  ale  and  cow-beef ;  and  they 
laughed  because  of  what  they  would  give  in 
payment  on  their  way  back  with  golden 
torques  and  bracelets  and  other  treasure,  young 
slaves,  women  dark  and  fair,  and  the  jewel- 
hilted  weapons  of  the  island-lords. 

Cold  black  winds  out  of  the  north-east  drove 
them  straight  upon  the  Ord  of  Sutherland. 
They  sang  with  joy  the  noon  when  they 
rounded  Cape  Wrath  and  came  under  the 
shadow  of  the  hills.  The  dawn  that  followed 
was  red  not  only  in  the  sky  but  on  the  sheen 
of  the  sword-blades.  It  was  the  Song  of  the 
Sword  that  day,  and  there  is  no  song  like  that 
for  the  flaming  of  the  blood.  The  dark  men 
of  Torridon  were  caught  unawares.  For 
seven  days  thereafter  the  corbies  and  ravens 
glutted  themselves  drinking  at  red  pools  be- 
side the  stripped  bodies  which  lay  stark  and 
stiff  upon  the  heather.  The  firing  of  a  score 
of  homesteads  smouldered  till  the  rains  came, 
a  day  and  two  nights  after  the  old  women  who 
had  been  driven  to  the  moors  stole  back  wail- 
ing. The  maids  and  wives  were  carried  ofif  in 
the  galleys :  and  for  nine  days,  at  a  haven  in 
the  lone  coast  opposite  the  Summer  Isles,  their 
tears,  their  laughter,  their  sullen  anger,  their 
wild  gaiety,  their  passionate  despair  gave  joy 

3/2 


Seanachas 

to  the  vellow-haired  men.  On  the  ninth  day 
they  were  carried  southward  on  the  summer- 
sailing.  At  a  place  called  Craig-Feeach, 
Raven's  Crag,  in  the  north  of  Skye,  where  a 
Norse  Erl  had  a  great  dim  that  he  had  taken 
from  the  son  of  a  king  from  Eireann  whose 
sea-nest  it  had  been,  Olaus  the  White  rested 
awhile.  The  women  were  left  there  as  a  free 
spoil ;  save  three  who  were  so  fair  that  Olaus 
kept  one,  and  Haco  and  Sweno,  his  chief  cap- 
tains, took  the  others. 

Then,  on  an  evening  when  the  wind  was 
from  the  north,  Olaus  and  ten  galleys  went 
down  the  Sound.  Sweno  the  Hammerer  was 
to  strike  across  the  west  for  the  great  island 
that  is  called  the  Lews  ;■  Haco  the  Laugher  was 
to  steer  for  the  island  that  is  called  Harris ; 
and  Olaus  himself  was  to  reach  the  haven 
called  Ljotr-wick  in  the  Isle  of  the  Thousand 
Waters  that  is  Benbecula. 

On  the  eve  of  the  day  following  that  sail- 
ing a  wild  wind  sprang  up,  blowing  straight 
against  the  north.  All  of  the  south-faring  gal- 
leys save  one  made  for  haven,  though  it  was  a 
savage  coast  which  lay  along  the  south  of  Skye. 
Li  the  darkness  of  the  storm  Olaus  thought 
that  the  other  nine  wavesteeds  were  following 
him,  and  he  drove  before  the  gale  with  his  men 
crouching  under  the  lee  of  the  bulwarks,  and 

273 


Seanachas 

with  Finnleikr  the  Harper  singing  a  wild  song 
of  sea-foam  and  flowing  blood  and  the  whirl- 
ing of  swords. 

The  gale  was  nigh  spent  three  hours  after 
dawn ;  but  the  green  seas  were  like  snow- 
crowned  hillocks  that  roll  in  earth-drunken- 
ness when  the  flames  surge  from  shaken 
mountains.  Olaus  knew  that  no  boat  could 
live  in  that  sea  except  it  went  before  the  wind. 
So,  though  not  a  galley  was  in  sight,  he  fared 
steadily  north-westward. 

By  sundown  the  wind  had  swung  out  of 
the  south  into  the  east ;  and  by  midnight  the 
stars  were  shining  clear.  In  the  blue-dark 
could  be  seen  the  white  wings  of  the  fulmars, 
seaward-drifting  once  again  from  the  rocks 
whither  they  had  fled. 

Then  came  the  dawn,  when  the  sun-rain 
streamed  gladly,  and  a  fresh  east  wind  blew 
across  the  ]\Imch,  and  the  Svart-Alf,  that  had 
been  driven  far  northward,  came  leaping 
south-westward! V,  with  lauditer  and  fierce 
shining  of  sky-blue  eyes,  where  the  vikings 
toiled  at  the  oars,  or  burnished  their  brine- 
stained  swords  and  javelins. 

All  dav  they  fared  joyously  thus.  Behind 
them  they  could  see  the  blue  line  of  the  main- 
land and  the  dark-blue  mountain  crests  of 
Skye ;  southward  was  a  long  green  film,  where 

374 


Seanachas 

Coll  caught  the  waves  ere  they  drove  upon 
Tiree ;  south-eastward,  the  grey-blue  peaks  of 
Halival  and  Haskival  rose  out  of  the  Isle  of 
Terror,  as  Rum  was  then  called.  Before  them, 
as  far  as  they  could  see  to  north  or  south,  the 
purple-grey  lines  that  rose  out  of  the  west 
i.vere  the  contours  of  the  Hebrides. 

"  Dost  thou  see  yonder  blue  splatch, 
Aiorna?  "  cried  Olaus  the  White  to  the  woman 
who  lay  indolently  by  his  side,  and  watched  the 
Run-gold  redden  the  mass  of  ruddy  hair  which 
.=!he  had  sprayed  upon  the  boards,  a  net  wherein 
to  mesh  the  eyes  of  the  vikings :  "  Do  you  see 
that  blue  splatch  ?  I  know  what  it  is.  It  is  the 
headland  that  Olaf  the  Furious  called  Skip- 
ness.  Behind  it  is  a  long  fjord  in  two  forks. 
At  the  end  of  the  south  fork  is  a  place  of  the 
white-robes  whom  the  islanders  call  Culdees. 
Midway  on  the  eastern  bend  of  the  north  fork 
■  is  a  town  of  a  hundred  families.  Over  both 
rules  Maoliosa,  a  warrior-priest ;  and  under 
him,  at  the  town,  is  a  greybeard  called  Ramon 
mac  Coag.  All  this  I  have  learned  from  Anlaf 
the  Swarthy,  who  came  with  us  out  of  Faroe." 

Morna  glanced  at  him  under  her  drooped 
eyelids.  Sure,  he  was  fair  to  see,  for  all  that 
his  long  hair  was  white.  White  it  had  gone 
with  the  terror  of  a  night  on  an  ice-floe,  where- 
on a  man  who  hated  the  young  Erl  had  set  him 

375 


Scanachas 

adrift  with  seven  wolves.  He  had  slain  three, 
and  drowned  three,  and  one  had  leaped  into 
the  sea ;  and  then  he  had  lain  on  the  ice,  with 
snow  for  a  pillow,  and  in  the  dawn  his  hair 
was  the  same  as  the  snow.  This  was  but  ten 
years  ago,  when  he  was  a  youth. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  when  she  spoke  it 
was  in  the  slow,  lazy  speech  that  in  his  ears 
was  drowsy-sweet  as  the  hum  of  the  hives  in 
the  steading  where  his  home  was. 

"  It  will  be  a  red  sleep  the  men  of  that 
town  will  be  having  soon,  I  am  thinking, 
Olaus.  And  the  women  will  not  be  carding 
wool  when  the  moon  rises  to-morrow  night. 
And " 

The  fair  woman  stopped  suddenly.  Olaus 
saw  her  eyes  darken. 

"  Olaus !  " 

"  I  listen." 

"If  there  is  a  woman  there  that  you  desire 
more  than  me  I  will  give  her  a  gift." 

Olaus  laughed. 

"  Keep  your  knife  in  your  girdle,  Morna. 
Who  knows  but  you  may  need  it  soon  to  save 
yourself  from  a  Culdee !  " 

"  Bah !  These  white-robed  men-women 
have  nought  to  do  with  us.  I  fear  no  man, 
Olaus ;  but  I  have  a  blade  for  any  woman  that 
will  dazzle  your  eyes." 

376 


Seanachas 

"  Have  no  fear,  white  wolf.  The  sea-wolf 
knows  his  mate  when  he  has  found  her." 

An  hour  after  sun-setting  a  mist  came  up. 
The  wind  freshened.  Olaus  made  silence 
throughout  the  war-galley.  The  vikings  had 
muffled  their  oars,  for  the  noise  of  the  waves 
on  the  shore  could  now  be  heard.  Hour  after 
hour  went  by.  When  at  last  the  moonlight 
tore  a  rift  in  the  haar,  and  suddenly  the  vapour 
was  licked  up  by  a  wind  moving  out  of  the 
north,  they  saw  that  they  were  close  upon  the 
land,  and  right  eastward  of  the  headland  of 
Skipness. 

Anlaf  the  Swarthy  went  to  the  prow. 
Blackly  he  loomed  in  the  moonlight  as  he  stood 
there,  poising  his  long  spear,  and  sounding  the 
depths  while  the  vessel  slowly  forged  shore- 
ward. By  the  time  a  haven  was  found,  and  the 
vikings  stood  silent  upon  the  rocks,  the  night 
was  yellow  with  moonshine,  and  the  brown 
earth  overlaid  with  a  soft  white  sheen  wherein 
the  long  shadows  lay  palely  blue. 

There  was  deep  peace  in  the  island-town. 
The  kye  were  in  the  sea-pastures  near,  and 
even  the  dogs  slept.  There  had  been  no  ill  for 
long,  and  Ramon  mac  Coag  was  an  old  man, 
and  dreamed  overmuch  about  his  soul.  This 
was  because  of  the  teaching  of  the  Culdees. 
Before  he  had  known  he  had  a  soul  he  was  a 

377 


Seanachas 

man,  and  would  not  have  been  taken  unawares, 
and  he  over-lord  of  a  sea-town  like  Bail'- 
tiorail. 

Olaus  the  White  made  a  wide  circuit  with 
his  men.     Then,  slowly,  the  circle  narrowed. 

A  bull  lowed,  where  it  stood  among  the  sea- 
grass,  stamping  uneasily,  and  ever  and  again 
sniffing  the  air.  Suddenly  one  heifer,  then  an- 
other, then  all  the  kye,  began  a  strange  lowing. 
The  dogs  rose,  with  bristling  felts,  and  crawled 
sidelong,  snarling,  with  red  eyes  gleaming 
savagely. 

Bethoc,  the  young  third  wife  of  Ramon,  was 
awake,  dreaming  of  a  man  out  of  Eireann  who 
had  that  day  given  her  a  strange  pleasure  with 
his  harp  and  his  dusky  eyes.  She  knew  that 
lowing.  It  was  the  langanaich  an  aghaidh  am 
allamharach,  the  continued  lowing  against  the 
stranger.  She  rose  lightly,  and  unfastened 
the  leather  flap,  and  looked  down  from  the 
Grianan  where  she  was.  A  man  stood  there 
in  the  shadow.  She  thought  it  was  the  harper. 
With  a  low  sigh  she  leaned  downward  to  kiss 
him,  and  to  whisper  a  word  in  his  ear. 

Her  long  hair  fell  over  her  eyes  and  face 
and  blinded  her.  She  felt  it  grasped,  and  put 
out  her  hand.  It  was  seized,  and  before  she 
knew  what  was  come  upon  her  she  was 
dragged  prone  upon  the  man. 

378 


Scanachas 

Then,  in  a  flash,  she  saw  he  had  yellow  hair, 
and  was  clad  as  a  Norseman.  She  gasped. 
If  the  sea-rovers  were  come,  it  was  death  for 
all  there.  The  man  whispered  something  in  a 
tongue  that  was  strange  to  her.  She  under- 
stood better  when  he  put  his  arm  about  her, 
and  placed  a  hand  upon  her  mouth. 

Bethoc  stood  silent.  Why  did  no  one  hear 
that  lowing  of  the  kine,  that  snarling  of  the 
dogs  which  had  now  grown  into  a  loud  contin- 
uous baying?  The  man  by  her  side  thought 
she  was  cowed,  or  had  accepted  the  change  of 
fate.  He  left  her,  and  put  his  foot  on  a  cleft ; 
then,  sword  under  his  chin,  he  began  to  climb 
stealthily. 

He  had  thrown  his  spear  upon  the  ground. 
Soundlessly  Bethoc  stepped  forward,  lifted  it, 
and  moved  forward  like  a  shadow. 

A  wild  cry  rang  through  the  night.  There 
was  a  gurgling  and  spurting  sound  as  of 
dammed  water  adrip.  Ramon  sprang  from  his 
couch  and  stared  out  of  the  aperture.  Beneath 
he  saw  a  man,  speared  through  the  back,  and 
pinned  to  the  soft  wood.  His  hands  claspt  the 
frayed  deerskins,  and  his  head  lay  upon  his 
shoulder.  He  was  laughing  horribly.  A  bub- 
bling of  foam  frothed  continuously  out  of  his 
mouth. 

The  next  moment  Ramon  saw  Bethoc.    He 

379 


Scanachas 

had  not  time  to  call  to  her  before  a  man  slipped 
out  of  the  shadow,  and  plunged  a  sword 
through  her  till  the  point  dripped  red  drops 
upon  the  grass  beyond  where  she  stood.  She 
gave  no  cry,  but  fell  as  a  gannet  falls.  A  black 
shadow  darted  across  the  gloom.  A  crash,  a 
scream,  and  Ramon  sank  inert,  with  an  arrow 
fixed  midway  in  his  head  through  the  brows. 

Then  there  was  a  fierce  tumult  everywhere. 
From  the  pastures  the  kye  ran  lowing  and 
bellowing  in  a  wild  stampede.  The  neighing 
of  horses  broke  into  screams.  Here  and  there 
red  flames  burst  forth,  and  leaped  from  hut 
to  hut.  Soon  the  whole  rath  was  aflame. 
Round  the  dijn  of  Ramon  a  wall  of  swords 
flashed. 

All  had  taken  refuge  in  the  dun,  all  who 
had  escaped  the  first  slaying.  If  any  leaped 
forth,  it  was  upon  a  viking  spear,  or  if  the  face 
of  any  was  seen  it  was  the  targe  for  a  swift- 
sure  arrow. 

A  long,  penetrating  wail  went  up.  The  Cul- 
dees  on  the  farther  loch  heard  it,  and  ran  from 
their  cells.  The  loud  laughter  of  the  sea- 
rovers  was  more  dreadful  to  them  than  the 
whirling  flames  and  the  wild  scream.ing  lament 
of  the  dying  and  the  doomed. 

None  came  forth  alive  out  of  that  dun,  save 
three  men,  and  seven  women  that  were  young. 

380 


Seanachas 

Two  of  the  men  were  made  to  tell  all  that 
Olaus  the  White  wanted  to  know.  Then  they 
were  blinded,  and  put  into  a  boat,  and  set  in 
the  tide-eddy  that  would  take  them  to  where 
the  Culdees  were.  And  for  the  Culdees  they 
had  a  message  from  Olaus. 

Of  the  seven  women  none  were  so  fair  that 
Morna  had  any  heed.  But  seven  men  had 
them  as  spoil.  Their  wild  keening  had  died 
away  into  a  silence  of  blank  despair  long  before 
the  dawn.  Wlien  the  light  came,  they  were 
huddled  in  a  white  group  near  the  ashes  of 
their  homes.     Everywhere  the  dead  sprawled. 

At  sunrise  the  vikings  held  an  ale-feast. 
When  Olaus  the  White  had  drunken  and  eaten, 
he  left  his  men  and  went  down  to  the  shore  to 
look  upon  the  fortified  place  where  Maoliosa 
the  Culdee  and  his  white-robes  lived.  As  he 
fared  thither  through  what  had  been  Bail'-tio- 
rail,  there  was  not  a  male  left  alive,  save  the 
one  prisoner  who  had  been  kept,  Aongas  the 
Bowmaker,  as  he  was  called ;  none  save  Aon- 
gas, and  a  strayed  child  among  the  salt  grasses 
near  the  shore,  a  little  boy,  naked,  and  with 
blue  eyes  and  laughing  sunny  smile. 


381 


THE   FLIGHT   OF  THE  CULDEES 

On  the  wane  of  noon,  on  the  day  following 
the  ruin  of  Bail'-tiorail,  sails  were  descried  far 
east  of  Skipness. 

Olaus  called  his  men  together.  The  boats 
coming  before  the  wind  were  doubtless  the  gal- 
leys of  his  own  fleet  which  he  had  lost  sight  of 
when  the  south-gale  had  blown  them  against 
Skye :  but  no  man  can  know  when  and  how  the 
gods  may  smile  grimly,  and  let  the  swords  that 
whirl  to  be  broken,  or  the  spears  that  are  flat 
become  a  hedge  of  death. 

An  hour  later,  a  startled  word  went  from 
viking  to  viking.  The  galleys  in  the  ofifing 
were  the  fleet  of  Sweno  the  Hammerer.  Why 
had  he  come  so  far  southward,  and  why  were 
oars  so  swift  and  with  the  sails  strained  to  the 
utmost  before  the  wind? 

They  were  soon  to  know. 

Sweno  himself  was  the  first  to  land.  A 
great  man  he  was,  broad  and  burly,  with  a 
sword-slash  across  his  face  that  brought  his 
brows  together  in  a  frown  which  made  a  per- 

382 


Seanachas 

petual  shadow  above  his  savage  blood-shot 
eyes. 

In  a  few  words  he  told  how  he  had  met  a 
galley,  with  only  half  its  crew,  and  of  these 
many  who  were  wounded.  It  was  the  last  of 
the  fleet  of  Haco  the  Laugher.  A  fleet  of  fif- 
teen war-birlinns  had  set  out  from  the  Long 
Island,  and  had  given  battle.  Haco  had  gone 
into  the  strife,  laughing  loud  as  was  his  wont, 
and  he  and  all  his  men  had  the  berserk 
rage,  and  fought  with  joy  and  foam  at  the 
mouth.  Never  had  the  Sword  sung  a  sweeter 
song. 

"Well,"  said  Olaus  the  White,  grimly, 
"  well,  how  did  the  Raven  fly  ?  " 

"  When  Haco  laughed  for  the  last  time,  with 
waving  sword  out  of  the  death  wherein  he 
sank,  there  was  only  one  galley  left.  Of  all 
that  company  of  vikings  there  were  no  more 
than  nine  to  tell  the  tale.  These  nine  we  took 
out  of  their  boat,  which  was  below  waves  soon. 
Haco  and  his  men  are  all  fighting  the  sea- 
shadows  by  now." 

A  loud  snarling  went  from  man  to  man. 
This  became  a  wild  cry  of  rage.  Then  savage 
shouts  filled  the  air.  Swords  were  lifted  up 
against  the  sky,  and  the  fierce  glitter  of  the 
blue  eyes  and  the  bristling  of  the  tawny  beards 
were  fair  to  see,  thought  the  captive  women, 

383 


Scanachas 

though  their  hearts  beat  against  their  ribs  hke 
eaglets  against  the  bars  of  a  cage. 

Sweno  the  Hammerer  frowned  a  deep  frown 
when  he  heard  that  Olaus  was  there  with  only 
the  Svart-Alf  out  of  the  galleys  which  had 
gone  the  southward  way. 

"  If  the  islanders  come  upon  us  now  with 
their  birlinns  we  shall  have  to  make  a  running 
fight,"  he  said. 

Olaus  laughed, 

"  Ay,  but  the  running  shall  be  after  the  bir- 
Hnns,  Sweno." 

"  I  hear  that  there  are  fifty  and  nine  men 
of  these  Culdees  yonder  under  the  sword- 
priest,  Maoliosa  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  true  word.  But  to-night,  after  the 
moon  is  up,  there  shall  be  none." 

At  that,  all  who  heard  laughed,  and  were 
less  heavy  in  their  hearts  because  of  the  slay- 
ing and  drowning  of  Haco  the  Laugher  and 
all  his  crew. 

"  Where  is  the  woman  Brenda  that  you 
took  ?  "  Olaus  asked,  as  he  stared  at  Sweno's 
boat  and  saw  no  woman  there. 

"  She  is  in  the  sea." 

Olaus  the  White  looked.  It  was  his  eyes 
that  asked. 

"  I  flung  her  into  the  sea  because  she  laughed 
when  she  heard  of  how  the  birlinns  of  Som- 

384 


Seanachas 

hairle  the  Renegade  drove  in  upon  our  ships, 
and  how  Haco  laughed  no  more,  and  how  the 
sea  was  red  with  LochHn  blood." 

"  She  was  a  woman,  Sweno — and  none 
more  fair  in  the  isles,  after  Morna  that  is 
mine." 

"  Woman  or  no  woman,  I  flung  her  into  the 
sea.  The  Gael  call  us  the  Gall:  then  I  will  let 
no  Gael  laugh  at  the  Gall.  It  is  enough.  She 
is  drowned.  There  are  always  women:  one 
here,  one  there — it  is  but  a  wave  blown  this 
way  or  that." 

At  this  moment  a  viking  came  running 
across  the  ruined  town  with  tidings.  Maoliosa 
and  his  Culdees  were  crowding  into  a  great 
birlinn.  Perhaps  they  were  coming  to  give 
battle :  mayhap  they  were  for  sailing  away 
from  that  place. 

Olaus  and  Sweno  stared  across  the  fjord. 
At  first  they  knew  not  what  to  think.  If 
Maoliosa  thought  of  battle  surely  he  would  not 
choose  that  hour  and  place.  Or  was  it  that 
he  knew  the  Gael  were  coming  in  force,  and 
that  the  vikings  were  caught  in  a  trap? 

At  last  it  was  clear.  Sweno  gave  a  great 
laugh. 

"  By  the  blood  of  Odin,"  he  cried,  "  they 
come  to  sue  for  peace !  " 

Slowly  across  the  loch  the  birlinn,  filled  with 

385 


Seanachas 

white-robed  Culdees,  drew  near.  At  the  prow 
stood  a  tall  old  man,  with  streaming  hair  and 
beard,  white  as  sea-foam.  In  his  right  hand  he 
grasped  a  great  Cross,  whereon  was  Christ  cru- 
cified. 

The  vikings  drew  close  one  to  the  other. 

"  Hail  them  in  their  own  tongue,  Sweno," 
said  Olaus. 

The  Hammerer  moved  to  the  water-edge,  as 
the  birlinn  stopped,  a  short  arrow-flight  away. 

"  Ho,  there,  druids  of  the  Christ- faith !  " 

"  What  would  you,  viking-lord  ?  "  It  was 
Maoliosa  himself  that  spoke. 

"  Why  do  you  come  over  here  to  us,  you 
that  are  Maoliosa?" 

"  To  win  you  and  yours  to  God,  Pagan." 

"  Is  it  madness  that  is  upon  you,  old  man  ? 
We  have  swords  and  spears  here,  if  we  lack 
hymns  and  prayers." 

All  this  time  Olaus  kept  a  wary  watch  in- 
land and  seaward,  for  he  feared  that  Maoliosa 
came  because  of  an  ambush. 

Truly  the  old  monk  was  mad.  He  had 
told  his  Culdees  that  God  would  prevail,  and 
that  the  Pagans  would  melt  away  before  the 
Cross. 

The  ebb-tide  was  running  swift.  Even 
while  Sweno  spoke,  the  birlinn  touched  a  low 
sea-hidden  ledge  of  rock. 

386 


Seanachas 

A  cry  of  consternation  came  from  the  white- 
robes.  Loud  laughter  went  up  from  the  vik- 
ings. 

"  Arrows  !  "  cried  Olaus. 

With  that,  three-score  men  took  their  bows. 
There  was  a  hail  of  death-shafts.  Many  fell 
into  the  water,  but  some  were  in  the  brains 
and  hearts  of  the  Culdees, 

Maoliosa  himself  stood  in  death,  transfixed 
to  the  mast. 

With  a  despairing  cry  the  monks  swept  their 
oars  backward.  Then  they  leaped  to  their 
feet,  and  changed  their  place,  and  rowed  for 
life  or  death. 

The  summer-sailors  sprang  into  their  galley 
that  they  had  pulled  through  the  narrow  strait. 
Sweno  the  Hammerer  was  at  the  bow.  The 
foam  curled  and  hissed. 

The  birlinn  grided  upon  the  opposite  shore 
at  the  self-same  moment  when  Sweno  brought 
down  his  battle-axe  upon  the  monk  who 
steered.  The  man  was  cleft  to  the  shoulder. 
Sweno  swayed  with  the  blow,  stumbled,  and 
fell  headlong  into  the  sea.  A  Culdee  thrust 
at  him  with  an  oar,  and  pinned  him  among 
the  sea-tangle.  Thus  died  Sweno  the  Ham- 
merer. 

Then  all  the  white-robes  leaped  upon  the 
shore.     Yet    Olaus    was    quicker    than    they. 

387 


Seanachas 

With  a  score  of  vikings  he  raced  to  the  Church 
of  the  Cells,  and  gained  the  sanctuary.  The 
monks  uttered  a  cry  of  despair,  and,  turning, 
fled  across  the  moor.  Olaus  counted  them. 
There  were  now  forty  in  all. 

"  Let  forty  men  follow,"  he  cried. 

Like  white  birds,  the  monks  fled  this  way 
and  that.  Olaus,  and  those  who  watched, 
laughed  at  them  as  they  stumbled,  because  of 
their  robes.  One  by  one  fell,  sword-cleft  or 
spear-thrust. 

At  the  last  there  were  less  than  a  score — 
twelve  only — ten ! 

"  Bring  them  back !  "  Olaus  shouted. 

When  the  ten  fugitives  were  captured  and 
brought  back,  Olaus  took  the  crucifix  that 
Maoliosa  had  raised,  and  held  it  before  each 
in  turn. 

"  Smite,"  he  said  to  the  first  monk.  But 
the  man  would  not. 

"  Smite !  "  he  said  to  the  second ;  but  he 
would  not.     And  so  it  was  to  the  tenth. 

"  Good,"  said  Olaus  the  White,  "  they  shall 
witness  to  their  god." 

With  that  he  bade  his  vikings  break  up  the 
birlinn,  and  drive  the  planks  into  the  ground, 
and  shore  them  up  with  logs. 

WTien  this  was  done  he  crucified  each  Cul- 
dee.     With  nails  and  with  ropes  he  did  unto 

388 


Seanachas 

each  what  their  god  had  suffered.     Then  all 
were  left  there  by  the  water-side. 

That  night,  when  Olans  the  White  and  the 
laughing  Morna  left  the  great  bonfire  where 
the  vikings  sang  and  drank  horn  after  horn 
of  strong  ale,  they  stood  and  looked  across 
the  loch.  In  the  moonlight,  upon  the  dim 
verge  of  the  farther  shore,  they  could  discern 
ten  crosses.  On  each  was  a  motionless  white 
splatch. 


389 


MIRCATH 1 

When  Haco  the  Laugher  saw  the  islanders 
coming  out  of  the  west  in  their  birhnns,  he 
called  to  his  vikings,  "  Now  of  a  truth  we  shall 
hear  the  Song  of  the  Sword !  " 

The  ten  galleys  of  the  summer-sailors 
spread  out  into  two  lines  of  five  boats,  each 
boat  an  arrow-flight  from  that  on  either  side. 

The  birlinns  came  on  against  the  noon.  In 
the  sun-dazzle  they  loomed  black  as  a  shoal 
of  pollack.  There  were  fifteen  in  all,  and 
from  the  largest,  midway  among  them,  flew 
a  banner.  On  this  banner  was  a  disc  of 
gold. 

"  It  is  the  Banner  of  the  Sunbeam !  "  shouted 
Olaf  the  Red,  who  with  Torquil  the  One- 
Armed  was  hero-man  to  Haco.  "  I  know  it 
well.  The  Gael  who  fight  under  that  are  war- 
riors indeed." 

"  Is  there  a  saga-man  here  ?  "  cried  Haco. 
At  that  a  great  shout  went  up  from  the  vikings : 
"  Harald  the  Smith  !  " 

*  The  Mire  Chath  was  the  name  given  to  the  war- 
frenzy  that  often  preceded  and  accompanied  battle. 


Seanachas 

A  man  rose  among  the  bow-men  in  Olaf's 
boat.  It  was  Harald.  He  took  a  small  square 
harp,  and  he  struck  the  strings.  This  was  the 
song  he  sang: 

Let  loose  the  hounds  of  war, 

The  whirHng  swords! 
Send  them  leaping  afar, 
Red  in  their  thirst  for  war; 
Odin  laughs  in  his  car 

At  the  screaming  of  the  swords! 

Far  let  the  white  ones  fly, 

The  whirling  swords! 
Afar  off  the  ravens  spy 
Death-shadows  cloud  the  sky. 
Let  the  wolves  of  the  Gael  die 

'Neath  the  screaming  swords! 

The  Shining  Ones  yonder 

High  in  Valhalla 
Shout  now,  with  thunder, 
Drive  the  Gaels  under. 
Cleave  them  asunder, — 

Swords  of  Valhalla! 

A  shiver  passed  over  every  viking.  Strong 
men  shook  as  a  child  when  lightning  plays. 
Then  the  trembling  passed.  The  mircath,  the 
war-frenzy  came  on  them.  Loud  laughter 
went  from  boat  to  boat.  Many  tossed  the 
great  oars,  and  swung  them  down  upon  the 

391 


Scanachas 

sea,  splashing  the  sun-dazzle  into  a  yeast  of 
foam.  Others  sprang  up  and  whirled  their 
javelins  on  high,  catching  them  with  bloody- 
mouths  :  others  made  sword-play,  and  stam- 
mered thick  words  through  a  surf  of  froth 
upon  their  lips.  Olaf  the  Red  towered  high 
on  the  steering-plank  of  the  Calling  Raven, 
swirling  round  and  round  a  mighty  battle-axe : 
on  the  Sea-Wolf,  Torquil  One-Arm  shaded  his 
eyes,  and  screamed .  hoarsely  wild  words  that 
no  one  knew  the  meaning  of.  Only  Haco  was 
still  for  a  time.  Then  he,  too,  knew  the  mir- 
cath ;  and  he  stood  up  in  the  Red-Dragon  and 
laughed  loud  and  long.  And  w^hen  Haco  the 
Laugher  laughed,  there  was  ever  blood  and  to 
spare. 

The  birlinns  of  the  islanders  drove  swiftly 
on.  They  swayed  out  into  a  curve,  a  black 
crescent  there  in  the  gold  -  sprent  blue 
meads  of  the  sea.  From  the  great  birlinn 
that  carried  the  Sunbeam  came  a  chanting 
voice : 


O,  'tis  a  good  song  the  sea  makes  when  blood  is  on 

the  wave, 
And  a  good  song  the  wave  makes  when  its  crest  of 

foam  is  red! 
For  the  rovers  out  of  LochHn  the  sea  is  a  good  grave, 
And  the  bards  will  sing  to-night  to  the  sea-moan  of 

the  dead! 


SeanacJias 

Yo-ho-a-h'eily-a-yo,  eily,  ayah,  a  yo! 
Sword  and  Spear  and  Battle-axe  sing  the  Song  of 
Woe! 

Ayah,  eily,  a  yo! 
Eily,  ayah,  a  yo! 

Then  there  was  a  swirhng  and  dashing  of 
foam.  Clouds  of  spray  filled  the  air  from  the 
thresh  of  the  oars. 

No  man  knew  aught  of  the  last  moments 
ere  the  birlinns  bore  down  upon  the  viking- 
galleys.  Crash  and  roar  and  scream,  and  a 
wild  surging;  the  slashing  of  swords,  the 
whistle  of  arrows,  the  fierce  hiss  of  whirled 
spears,  the  rending  crash  of  battle-axe  and 
splintering  of  the  javelins;  wild  cries,  oaths, 
screams,  shouts  of  victors,  and  yells  of  the  dy- 
ing ;  shrill  taunts  from  the  spillers  of  life,  and 
savage  choking  cries  from  those  drowning  in 
the  bloody  yeast  that  bubbled  and  foamed  in 
the  maelstrom  where  the  war-boats  swung  and 
reeled  this  way  and  that ;  and,  over  all,  the  loud 
death-music  of  Haco  the  Laugher. 

Olaf  the  Red  went  into  the  sea,  red  indeed, 
for  the  blood  streamed  from  head  and  shoul- 
ders, and  fell  about  him  as  a  scarlet  robe. 
Torquil  One-Arm  fought,  blind  and  arrow- 
sprent,  till  a  spear  went  through  his  neck,  and 
he  sank  among  the  dead.  Louder  and  louder 
grew  the  fierce  shouts  of  the  Gael ;  fewer  the 

393 


Seanachas 

savage  screaming  cries  of  the  vikings.  Thus 
it  was  till  two  galleys  only  held  living  men. 
The  Calling  Raven  turned  and  fled,  with  the 
nine  men  who  were  not  wounded  to  the  death. 
But,  on  the  Red-Dragon,  Haco  the  Laugher 
still  laughed.  Seven  men  were  about  him. 
These  fought  in  silence. 

Then  Toscar  mac  Aonghas,  that  was  leader 
of  the  Gael,  took  his  bow.  None  was  arrow- 
better  than  Toscar  of  the  Nine  Battles.  He 
laid  down  his  sword  and  took  his  bow,  and 
an  arrow  went  through  the  right  eye  of  Haco 
the  Laugher.  He  laughed  no  more.  The 
seven  died  in  silence.  Swaran  Swiftfoot  was 
the  last.  When  he  fell,  he  wiped  away  the 
blood  that  streamed  over  his  face. 

"  Skoal! "  he  cried  to  the  hero  of  the  Gael, 
and  with  that  he  whirled  his  battle-axe  at  Tos- 
car mac  Aonghas ;  and  the  soul  of  Toscar  met 
his,  in  the  dark  mist,  and  upon  the  ears  of  both 
fell  at  one  and  the  same  time  the  glad  laughter 
of  the  gods  in  Valhalla. 


394 


THE  SAD   QUEEN 

"  There  was  darkness  over  Eire  :  they  adored  things 
of  Faerie."  The  Fiacc  Hymn. 

Two  men  lay  bound  in  the  stone  fold  be- 
hind the  great  wall  of  Dun  Scaith  in  the  Isle 
of  Mist. 

One  was  Ulric  the  Skald;  the  other  was 
Connla  the  Harper.  Only  they  two  lived  when 
the  galleys  went  down  in  the  IMinch,  and 
the  Gael  and  the  Gall  sank  in  the  reddened 
waves. 

For  a  long  hour  they  were  swung  on  the 
waves  and  on  the  same  spar — the  mast  of  the 
Death-Raven,  which  Sven  of  the  Long  Hair 
had  sailed  in  from  the  north  isles,  with  a  score 
galleys  of  a  score  men  in  each.  Farcha  the 
Silent  had  met  him  with  two  score  galleys  of 
ten  men  in  each. 

They  had  fought  since  the  sun  was  in  the 
south  till  it  hung  above  the  west.  Then  there 
were  only  the  Death-Raven  and  the  Foam- 
Sweeper.  Ulric  sat  by  Sven  and  sang  the 
death-song  and  the  song  of  swords;  Connla 

395 


Seanachas 

sat  by  Farcha  and  sang  the  high  song  of  vic- 
tory. 

When  the  galleys  met  through  the  bloody 
tangle  in  the  seas,  where  spears  rose  and  fell 
like  boughs  and  branches  of  a  wood  in  storm, 
and  where  men's  hair  clung  black  and  limp 
past  wild  eyes  and  faces  red  with  blood,  Sven 
leaped  into  the  Foam-Szvcepcr,  and  clove  the 
head  from  a  spearman  who  thrust  at  him,  so 
that  it  fell  into  the  sea,  and  the  headless  man 
shook  with  a  palsy  and  waveringly  mowed 
an  idle  spear. 

But  in  that  doing  he  staggered,  and  Farcha 
thrust  his  spear  through  him.  The  spear  fixed 
Sven  to  the  mast.  Then  an  arrow  from  the 
sea  struck  him  across  the  eves,  and  he  saw  no 
more ;  and  when  the  Foam-Sweeper  sank  and 
dragged  the  Death-Raven  with  it,  the  two  kings 
met:  but  Farcha  was  now  like  a  heavy  fish 
swung  this  way  and  that,  and  Sven  thought 
the  body  was  the  body  of  Gunhild  whom  he 
loved,  and  strove  to  kiss  it,  but  could  not  be- 
cause of  the  spear  and  seven  arrows  which 
nailed  him  to  the  mast. 

When  the  moon  rose,  the  waters  were  in  a 
white  calm.  Mid-sea,  a  great  shadow  passed 
northward :  the  travelling  myriad  of  the  her- 
ring-host. 

When  Ulric  the  Skald  sank  from  the  mast, 

396 


Seanachas 

Connla  the  Harper  held  him  by  the  hair,  and 
gave  him  breath,  so  that  he  Hved. 

Thus  when  two  spears  drifted  near,  neither 
snatched  at  them.  Later,  Connla  spoke.  "  One 
pulls  me  by  the  feet,"  he  said ;  "  it  is  one  of 
your  dead  men  who  is  drowning  me."  But  at 
that  Ulric  drew  a  long  breath,  and  strength- 
ened his  heart :  then,  seizing  one  of  the  spears, 
he  thrust  it  downward,  and  struck  the  dead 
man  whose  hair  tangled  the  feet  of  Connla,  so 
that  the  dead  man  sank. 

When  they  heard  cries,  they  thought  the 
galleys  had  come  again,  or  others  of  Sven's 
host,  or  of  Farcha's:  but  when  they  were 
dragged  out  of  the  sea,  and  lay  staring  at  the 
stars,  they  knew  no  more,  for  sounds  swam 
into  their  ears,  and  mist  came  into  their  eyes, 
and  it  was  as  though  they  sank  through  the 
boat,  and  through  the  sea,  and  through  the 
infinite  blank  void  below  the  sea,  and  were  as 
two  feathers  there,  blown  idly  under  dim  stars. 

When  they  woke  it  was  day,  and  a  woman 
stood  looking  darkly  at  them. 

She  was  tall,  and  of  great  strength ;  taller 
than  Connla,  stronger  than  Ulric.  Long  black 
hair  fell  upon  her  shoulders,  which,  with  her 
breast  and  thighs,  were  covered  with  pale 
bronze.  A  red  and  green  cloak  was  over  the 
right  shoulder,  and  was  held  by  a  great  brooch 

397 


Seanachas 

of  gold.  A  yellow  torque  of  gold  was  round 
her  neck.  A  three-pointed  torque  of  gold  was 
on  her  head.  Her  legs  were  swathed  with 
deerskin  thongs,  and  her  feet  were  in  coverings 
of  cowskin  stained  red. 

Her  face  was  pale  as  wax,  and  of  a  strange 
and  terrible  beauty.  They  could  not  look  long 
in  her  eyes,  which  were  black  as  darkness, 
with  a  red  flame  wandering  in  it.  Her  lips 
were  curled  delicately,  and  were  like  thin 
sudden  lines  of  blood  in  the  whiteness  of 
her  face. 

"  I  am  Scathach,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
looked  long  at  them.  Each  knew  that  name, 
and  the  heart  of  each  was  like  a  bird  before 
the  slinger.  If  they  were  with  .Scathach,*  the 
queen  of  the  warrior-women  of  the  Isle  of 
Mist,  it  would  have  been  better  to  die  in 
water.  The  grey  stones  of  Dun  Scaith  were 
russet  with  old  blood  of  slain  captives. 

"I  am  Scathach,"  she  said.  "Do  I  look 
upon  Sven  of  Lochlann  and  Farcha  of  the 
Middle  Isles?" 

"  I  am  Ulric  the  Skald,"  answered  the  north- 
man. 

>  Scathach  (pronounced  Ska'ah,  or  Skiah) :  the 
name  of  the  island  of  Skye  is  by  some  said  to  be 
derived  from  the  famous  Amazonian  queen  who 
lived  there,  and  taught  Cuchullin  the  arts  of  war. 


Seanachas 

"  I  am  Connla  the  Harper,"  answered  the 
Gael. 

"  You  die  to-night,"  and  with  that  Scathach 
stood  silent  again,  and  looked  darkly  upon  them 
for  a  long  while. 

At  noon  a  woman  brought  them  milk  and 
roasted  elk  meat.  She  was  fair  to  see,  though 
a  scar  ran  across  her  face.  They  sent  word 
by  her  to  Scathach  with  a  prayer  for  life ; 
they  would  be  helots,  and  put  birth  upon 
women.  For  they  knew  the  wont.  But  the 
woman  returned  with  the  same  word. 

"  It  is  because  she  loved  Cuchullin,"  the 
woman  said,  "  and  he  was  a  poet,  and  sang 
songs,  and  made  music  as  you  do.  He  was 
fairer  than  you,  man  with  the  yellow  hair,  man 
with  the  long,  dark  hair;  and  you  have  put 
memories  into  the  mind  of  Scathach.  But  she 
will  listen  to  you  harping  and  singing  before 
you  die." 

When  the  darkness  came,  and  the  dew  fell, 
Ulric  spoke  to  Connla.  "  The  horse  Rime- 
mane  is  moving  among  the  stars,  for  the  foam 
is  falling  from  his  mouth." 

Connla  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew. 

"  It  was  thus  on  the  night  I  loved,"  he  said 
below  his  breath. 

XJlric  could  not  see  Connla's  face  because 
of  the  shadows.     But  he  heard  low  sobs,  and 

399 


Seanachas 

knew  that  Connla's  face  was  wet  with  tears. 
"  I  too  loved,"  he  said ;  "  I  have  had  many 
women  for  my  love." 

"  There  is  but  one  love,"  answered  Connla 
in  a  low  voice ;  "  it  is  of  that  I  am  thinking  and 
have  remembrance." 

"  Of  that  I  do  not  know,"  said  Ulric.  "  I 
loved  one  woman  well  so  long  as  she  was 
young  and  fair.  But  one  day  a  king's  son  de- 
sired her,  and  I  came  upon  them  in  a  wood  on 
a  cliff  by  the  sea.  I  put  my  arms  about  her  and 
leaped  down  the  cliff.  She  was  drowned.  I 
paid  no  eric." 

"  There  is  no  age  upon  the  love  of  my  love," 
said  Connla  softly :  "  she  was  more  beautiful 
than  the  stars."  And  because  of  that  great 
beauty  he  forgot  death  and  his  bonds. 

When  the  warrior-women  led  them  out  to 
the  shore,  Scathach  looked  at  them  from  where 
she  sat  by  the  great  fire  that  blazed  upon  the 
sands. 

She  had  been  told  that  which  they  said  one 
to  the  other. 

"  Sing  the  song  of  your  love,"  she  said  to 
Ulric. 

"  What  heed  have  I  of  any  woman  in  the 
hour  of  my  death?"  he  answered  sullenly. 

"  Sing  the  song  of  your  love,"  she  said  to 
Connla. 

400 


Scanaclias 

Connla  looked  at  her,  and  at  the  great  fire 
round  which  the  fierce-eyed  women  stood  and 
looked  at  him,  and  at  the  still,  breathless  stars. 
The  dew  fell  upon  him. 

Then  he  sang — 

Is  it  time  to  let  the  hour  rise  and  go  forth,  as  a  hound 

loosed  from  the  battle-cars? 
Is  it  time  to  let  the  hour  go  forth,  as  the  White 

Hound  with  the  eyes  of  flame? 
For  if  it  be  not  time,  I  would  have  this  hour  that  is 

left  to  me  under  the  stars, 
Wherein  I  may  dream  my  dream  again,  and  at  the 

last  whisper  one  name. 

It  is  the  name  of  one  who  was  more  fair  than  youth 

to  the  old,  than  life  to  the  young; 
She  was  more  fair  than  the  first  love  of  Angus  the 

Beautiful,  and  though  I  were  blind 
And  deaf  for  a  hundred  ages  I  would  see  her,  more 

fair  than  any  poet  has  sung. 
And  hear  her  voice  like  mournful  songs  crying  on  the 

wind. 

There  was  silence.  Scathach  sat  with  her 
face  between  her  hands,  staring  into  the  flame. 

She  did  not  lift  her  face  when  she 
spoke. 

"Take  Ulric  the  Skald,"  she  said  at  last, 
but  with  eyes  that  stared  still  into  the  flame, 
"  and  give  him  to  what  woman  wants  him,  for 
he   knows    nothing   of    love.     If    no    woman 

401 


Seanachas 

wants  him,  put  a  spear  through  his  heart,  so 
that  he  die  easily. 

"  But  take  Connla  the  Harper,  because  he 
has  known  all  things,  knowing  that  one  thing, 
and  has  no  more  to  know,  and  is  beyond  us, 
and  lay  him  upon  the  sand  with  his  face  to  the 
stars,  and  put  red  brands  of  fire  upon  his 
naked  breast,  till  his  heart  bursts  and  he  dies." 

So  Connla  the  Harper  died  in  silence,  where 
he  lay  on  the  moonlit  sand,  with  red  embers 
and  flaming  brands  on  his  naked  breast,  and 
his  face  white  and  still  as  the  stars  that  shone 
upon  him. 


402 


THE  LAUGHTER  OF  SCATHACH  THE 

QUEEN 

In  the  year  when  CuchuIHn  left  the  Isle  of 
Skye,  where  Scathach  the  warrior-queen  ruled 
with  the  shadow  of  death  in  the  palm  of  her 
sword-hand,  there  was  sorrow  because  of  his 
beauty.  He  had  fared  back  to  Eire,  at  the 
summons  of  Concobar  mac  Nessa,  Ard-Righ 
of  Ulster.  For  the  Clan  of  the  Red  Branch 
was  wading  in  blood,  and  there  were  seers  who 
beheld  that  bitter  tide  rising  and  spreading, 

Cuchullin  was  only  a  youth  in  years ;  but 
he  had  come  to  Skye  a  boy,  and  he  had  left 
it  a  man.  None  fairer  had  ever  been  seen  of 
Scathach  or  of  any  woman.  He  was  tall  and 
lithe  as  a  young  pine ;  his  skin  was  as  white 
as  a  woman's  breast ;  his  eyes  were  of  a  fierce 
bright  blue,  with  a  white  light  in  them  as  of 
the  sun.  When  bent,  and  with  arrow  half- 
way drawn,  he  stood  on  the  heather,  listening 
against  the  belling  of  the  deer;  or  when  he 
leaned  against  a  tree,  dreaming  not  of  eagle- 
chase  or  wolf-hunt,  but  of  the  woman  whom 
he  had  never  met;  or,  when  by  the  dun,  he 

403 


Seanachas 

played  at  sword-whirl  or  spear-thrust,  or  raced 
the  war-chariot  across  the  machar — then,  and 
ever  there  were  eyes  upon  his  beauty,  and 
there  were  some  who  held  him  to  be  Angus 
Og  himself.  For  there  was  a  light  about 
him,  such  as  the  hills  have  in  sun-glow  an 
hour  before  set.  His  hair  was  the  hair  of 
Angus  and  of  the  fair  gods,  earth-brown 
shot  with  gold  next  his  head,  ruddy  as 
flame  midway,  and,  where  it  sprayed  into  a 
golden  mist  of  fire,  yellow  as  windy  sun- 
shine. 

But  Cuchullin  loved  no  woman  upon  Skye, 
and  none  dared  openly  to  love  Cuchullin,  for 
Scathach's  heart  yearned  for  him,  and  to  cross 
the  Queen  was  to  put  the  shroud  upon  one- 
self. Scathach  kept  an  open  face  for  the  son 
of  Lerg.  There  was  no  dark  frown  above  the 
storm  in  her  eyes  when  she  looked  at  his 
sunbright  face.  Gladly  she  slew  a  woman  be- 
cause Cuchullin  had  lightly  reproved  the  maid 
for  some  idle  thing ;  and  once,  when  the  youth 
looked  in  grave  silence  at  three  viking  captives 
whom  she  had  spared  because  of  their  comely 
manhood,  she  put  her  sword  through  the  heart 
of  each,  and  sent  him  the  blade,  dripping  red, 
as  the  flower  of  love. 

But  Cuchullin  was  a  dreamer,  and  he  loved 
what  he  dreamed  of,  and  that  woman  was  not 

404 


Seanachas 

Scathach,  nor  any  of  her  warrior-women 
who  made  the  Isle  of  Mist  a  place  of  ter- 
ror for  those  cast  upon  the  wild  shores, 
or  stranded  there  in  the  ebb  of  inglorious 
battle. 

Scathach  brooded  deep  upon  her  vain  desire. 
Once,  in  a  windless,  shadowy  gloaming,  she 
asked  him  if  he  loved  any  woman. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  Etain." 

Her  breath  came  quick  and  hard.  Tt  was 
for  pleasure  to  her  then  to  think  of  CuchuUin 
lying  white  at  her  feet,  with  the  red  blood 
spilling  from  the  whiteness  of  his  breast.  But 
she  bit  her  under  lip,  and  said  quietly : 

"Who  is  Etain?" 

"  She  is  the  wife  of  Midir." 

And  with  that  the  youth  turned  and  moved 
haughtily  away.  She  did  not  know  that  the 
Etain  of  whom  Cuchullin  dreamed  was  no 
woman  that  he  had  seen  in  Eire,  but  the  wife 
of  Midir,  the  King  of  Faerie,  who  was  so 
passing  fair  that  Mac  Greine,  the  beautiful 
god,  had  made  for  her  a  Grianan  all  of  shining 
glass,  where  she  lives  in  a  dream,  and  in  that 
sun-bower  is  fed  at  dawn  upon  the  bloom  of 
flowers  and  at  dusk  upon  their  fragrance.  O 
ogham    mliic    Greine,    tha   e    boidheach,^   she 

»"0  beauty  of  my  love  the  Sun-lord"  {lit.  "0 
youth,  son  of  the  Sun,  how  fair  he  is!"). 

405 


Seanachas 

sighs  for  ever  in  her  sleep ;  and  that  sigh  is  in 
all  sighs  of  love  for  ever  and  ever. 

Scathach  watched  him  till  he  was  lost  be- 
hind the  flare  of  the  camp  fires  of  the  rath. 
For  long  she  stood  there,  brooding  deep,  till 
the  sickle  of  the  new  moon,  which  had  been 
like  a  blown  feather  over  the  sun  as  it  sank, 
stood  out  in  silver-shine  against  the  blue-black 
sky,  now  like  a  wake  in  the  sea  because  of  the 
star-dazzle  that  was  there.  And  what  the 
Queen  brooded  upon  was  this :  Whether  to 
send  emissaries  to  Eireann,  under  bond  to 
seek  in  that  land  till  they  found  Midir  and 
Etain,  and  to  slay  Midir  and  bring  to  her  the 
corpse,  for  a  gift  from  her  to  lay  before 
Cuchullin ;  or  to  bring  Etain  to  Skye,  where 
the  Queen  might  see  her  lose  her  beauty  and 
wane  into  death.  Neither  way  might  win  the 
heart  of  Cuchullin.  The  dark  tarn  of  the 
woman's  mind  grew  blacker  with  the  shadow 
of  that  thought. 

Slowly  she  moved  dim-ward  through  the 
night. 

"  As  the  moon  sometimes  is  seen  rising  out 
of  the  east,"  she  muttered,  "  and  sometimes,  as 
now,  is  first  seen  in  the  west,  so  is  the  heart 
of  love.  And  if  I  go  west,  lo,  the  moon  may 
rise  along  the  sun  way ;  and  if  I  go  east,  lo,  the 
moon  may  be  a  white  light  over  the  setting 

406 


Seanachas 

sun.  And  who  that  knoweth  the  heart  of 
man  or  woman  can  tell  when  the  moon  of  love 
is  to  appear  full-orbed  in  the  east,  or  sickle- 
wise  in  the  west?  " 

It  was  on  the  day  following  that  tidings 
came  out  of  Eireann.  An  Ultonian  brought  a 
sword  to  Cuchullin  from  Concobar  the  Ard- 
Righ. 

"  The  sword  has  ill  upon  it,  and  will  die  un- 
less you  save  it,  Cuculain,  son  of  Lerg,"  said 
the  man. 

"  And  what  is  that  ill,  Ultonian  ?  "  asked  the 
youth. 

"  It  is  thirst." 

Then  Cuchullin  understood. 

On  the  night  of  his  going  none  looked  at 
Scathach.    She  had  a  flame  in  her  eyes. 

At  moonrise  she  came  back  into  the  rath. 
No  one  meeting  her  looked  in  her  face.  Death 
lay  there,  like  the  levin  behind  a  cloud.  But 
Maev,  her  chief  captain,  sought  her,  for  she 
had  glad  news. 

"  I  would  slay  you  for  that  glad  news, 
Maev,"  said  the  Dark  Queen  to  the  warrior- 
woman,  "  for  there  is  no  glad  news  unless 
it  be  that  Cuchullin  is  come  again ;  only ;  I 
spare,  for  you  saved  my  life  that  day 
the  summer-sailors  burned  my  rath  in  the 
south." 

407 


Seanachas 

Nevertheless  Scathach  had  gladness  because 
of  the  tidings.  Three  viking  galleys  had  been 
driven  into  Loch  Scavaig,  and  been  dashed  to 
death  there  by  the  whirling  wind  and  the  nar- 
row, furious  seas.  Of  the  ninety  men  who  had 
sailed  in  them,  only  a  score  had  reached  the 
rocks,  and  these  were  now  lying  bound  at  the 
dun,  awaiting  death. 

"  Call  out  my  warriors,"  said  Scathach, 
"  and  bid  all  meet  at  the  oak  near  the  Ancient 
Stones.  And  bring  thither  the  twenty  men 
that  lie  bound  in  the  dijn." 

There  was  a  scattering  of  fire  and  a  clash- 
ing of  swords  and  spears  when  the  word  went 
from  Maev.  Soon  all  were  at  the  Stones  be- 
neath the  great  oak. 

"  Cut  the  bonds  from  the  feet  of  the  sea- 
rovers,  and  let  them  stand."  Thus  commanded 
the  Queen. 

The  tall,  fair  men  out  of  Lochlin  stood  with 
their  hands  bound  behind  them.  In  their  eyes 
burned  wrath  and  shame,  because  that  they 
were  the  sport  of  women.  A  bitter  death 
theirs,  with  no  sword-song  for  music.  "  Take 
each  by  his  long  yellow  hair,"  said  Scathach, 
"  and  tie  the  hair  of  each  to  a  down-caught 
bough  of  the  oak." 

In  silence  this  thing  was  done.  A  shadow 
was  in  the  paleness  of  each  viking  face. 

408 


Seanachas 

"  Let  the  boughs  go,"  said  Scathach. 

The  five  score  warrior  women  who  held  the 
great  boughs  downward  sprang  back.  Up 
swept  the  branches,  and  from  each  swung  a 
living  man,  swaying  in  the  wind  by  his  long 
yellow  hair. 

Great  men  they  were,  strong  warriors ;  but 
stronger  was  the  yellow  hair  of  each,  and 
stronger  than  the  hair  the  bough  wherefrom 
each  swung,  and  stronger  than  the  boughs  the 
wind  that  swayed  them  idly  like  drooping 
fruit,  with  the  stars  silvering  their  hair  and 
the  torch-flares  reddening  the  white  soles  of 
their  dancing  feet. 

Then  Scathach  the  Queen  laughed  loud  and 
long.  There  was  no  other  sound  at  all  there, 
for  none  ever  uttered  sound  when  Scathach 
laughed  that  laugh,  for  then  her  madness  was 
upon  her. 

But  at  the  last,  Mael  strode  forward  and 
struck  a  small  clarsach  that  she  carried,  and 
to  the  wild  notes  of  it  sang  the  death-song  of 
the  vikings : 

O  arone  a-ree,  eily  arone,  arone! 

'Tis  a  good  thing  to  be  sailing  across  the  sea! 

How  the  women  smile  and  the  children  are  laughing 

glad 
When  the  galleys  go  out  into  the  blue  sea — arone! 
O  eily  arone,  arone! 

409 


Seanachas 

But  the  children  may  laugh  less  when  the  wolves 

come, 
And  the  women  may  smile  less  in  the  winter-cold ; 
For  the  Summer-sailors  will  not  come  again,  arone! 
O  arone  a-ree,  eily  arone,  arone! 

I  am  thinking  they  will  not  sail  back  again,  O  no! 
The  yellow-haired  men  that  came  sailing  across  the 

sea: 
For  'tis  wild  apples  they  would  be,  and  swing  on 

green  branches. 
And  sway  in  the  wind  for  the  corbies  to  preen  their 

eyne. 

O  eily  arone,  eily  a-ree  I 

And  it  is  pleasure  for  Scathach  the  Queen  to  see  this : 
To  see  the  good  fruit  that  grows  upon  the  Tree  of  the 

Stones. 
Long,  speckled  fruit  it  is,  wind-swayed  by  its  yellow 

roots, 
And  like  men  they  are  with  their  feet  dancing  in  the 

void  air! 

0,0,  arone,  aree,  eily  arone! 

When  she  ceased,  all  there  swung  swords 
and  spears,  and  flung  flaring  torches  into  the 
night,  and  cried  out : 

O  arone  a-ree,  eily  arone,  arone, 
O,  O,  arone,  a-ree,  eily  arone! 

Scathach  laughed  no  more.  She  was  weary 
now.    Of  what  avail  any  joy  of  death  against 

410 


Scanachas 

the  pain  she  had  in  her  heart,  the  pain  that 
was  called  Cuchullin  ? 

Soon  all  was  dark  in  the  rath.  Flame  after 
flame  died  out.  Then  there  was  but  one  red 
glare  in  the  night,  the  watch-fire  by  the  dun. 
Deep  peace  was  upon  all.  Not  a  heifer  lowed, 
not  a  dog  bayed  against  the  moon.  The  wind 
fell  into  a  breath,  scarce  enough  to  lift  the 
fragrance  from  flower  to  flower.  Upon  the 
branches  of  a  great  oak  swung  motionless  a 
strange  fruit,  limp  and  grey  as  the  hemlock 
that  hangs  from  ancient  pines. 


411 


AHEZ    THE    PALE 

The  moon  sent  her  lances  through  the  forest 
of  Brocehande,  among  giant  thickets  of  oak 
and  beech.  Under  their  boles  the  fire- flies 
trailed  green  fires.  At  long  intervals  a  night- 
jar intermittently  churred  his  passionate  note 
to  his  mate,  she  swaying  silent  on  a  near 
branch.  But  the  cry  of  the  night-jar,  the  faint 
rustle  of  a  wolf's  foot  among  the  acorn-garths, 
or  of  a  doe  uneasy  amid  the  fern,  the  innu- 
merable whisper  of  the  green  leafy  world — • 
what  were  these  but  breaths  of  sound  upon 
the  sea  of  silence. 

The  nightingales  had  been  still  for  a  moon- 
quarter  or  more.  For  three  farings  of  sun 
and  moon  the  wind  had  scarcely  reached 
Broceliande  from  the  sea,  or  had  reached  it 
only  to  lapse  where  the  fronds  of  the  bracken 
were  motionless  as  the  pines.  Through  the 
long  days  sullen  thunders  had  prevailed. 
Sometimes  their  hollow  booming  came  inland, 
and  the  sea  moaned  among  oak-glades  round 
whose  roots  no  wave  had  ever  lapped,  whose 
green  lips  had  never  felt  the  foam-salt  which 

412 


Ahe2  the  Pale 

in  tempests  whitens  leagues  of  the  mainland. 
Sometimes  their  prolonged  reverberations 
came  out  of  the  south,  and  the  void  echoes  of 
the  Black  Mountain  travelled  the  green  way 
of  the  oak  summits  beyond  where  the  dunes 
fringe  the  extreme  of  the  forest.  But  north 
or  south,  east  or  west,  the  thunders  had  not 
lapsed  for  days.  Ubiquitous,  they  were  a  per- 
petual menace :  yet  though  lightnings  flashed 
continually  along  their  livid  flanks,  these 
scimitars  and  dreadful  spears  were  not  let 
loose.  Save  by  night,  when  the  obscure  dome 
unveiled,  there  was  no  cessation  of  that  hollow 
minatory  voice,  a  sullen  monotone :  the  skiey 
fires  darted  and  flickered  their  adder-tongues, 
but  flamed  no  solitary  oak  into  a  sudden  blaze, 
blasted  no  homestead,  charred  no  fugitive  life. 

In  the  profound  silence  of  this  night,  a  long 
wailing  chant  ascended  from  the  shadow  of 
the  forest. 

After  the  first  interval,  a  figure  stirred 
stealthily  amid  the  fern,  in  a  glade  near  the 
westward  margin  of  Broceliande,  and  moved 
swiftly  to  where  the  chant  rose  and  fell,  a  thin, 
solitary  cadence  in  that  remote  and  consecrate 
region. 

For  in  those  days  the  forest  of  Broceliande 
was  the  holy  of  holies  of  the  Druids,  who, 
within  its  solitudes,  maintained  their  most  se- 

413 


Ahe2  the  Pale 

cret  rites  and  mysteries.  Beyond  the  reach  of 
their  spells,  not  only  the  wolf  and  the  bear,  but 
the  korrigan  and  the  nain,  the  pool-sprite  and 
the  swamp-demon,  the  were-wolf  and  the  soul- 
less ghoul  that  was  like  a  woman,  made  the 
greenglooms  a  terror  by  day — a  living  death 
by  night. 

It  was  no  druid,  however,  who  tracked  fur- 
tively the  chanting  voice,  for  the  moonlight 
glistered  on  an  iron  breastplate  and  on  a 
plumed  and  strangely-shaped  bronze  helmet. 
The  man  who  thus  dared  secret  death 
made  no  effort  to  escape  into  the  recesses  of 
the  forest.  Stealthily  he  drew  closer  to  where 
the  priest  of  Teutates  sang.  When,  at  last,  he 
was  so  near  the  fane,  a  single  tall  stone,  that 
he  was  within  a  javelin-flight  of  the  solitary 
white-robed  chanter,  he  crouched,  and  waited. 

The  priest  was  a  youth,  and  fair.  As,  in 
his  slow,  circling  walk  he  came  nigh  the  spot 
where  the  interloper  lay  amid  the  fern,  he 
stopped  and  stared  dreamily  at  the  moon, 
which  swung  goldenly  in  the  green  dusk  be- 
tween two  lofty  oaks.  In  his  eyes  there  was 
a  light  that  was  not  lit  there  by  Teutates.  He 
smiled  and  drew  farther  into  the  wood,  so  that 
he  could  look  at  the  yellow  globe  as  a  fair  face 
set  far  above  him. 

There   was   silence   now.     The   druid   had 

414 


Ahes  the  Pale 

ceased  his  chant,  had  forgotten  his  god.  But 
the  gods  never  shimber,  nor  do  they  forgive. 
The  youth  moved  a  step  or  two  forw^ard  into  a 
thick  garth  of  fern.  Slowly  he  raised  his 
arms. 

"  To  thee,  O  Goddess,  I  pray !  "  he  cried, 
softly.  "  To  thee  I  pray !  Grant  me  that 
which  is  the  sweetest  and  surest  thing  in  the 
world !  " 

He  stared  upward,  his  lips  parted,  his  eyes 
shining. 

"  She  loves  me,"  he  murmured  again :  "  she 
loves  me,  O  Goddess !  Grant  me  that  which 
is  the  sweetest  and  surest  thing  in  the  world !  " 

Astoret  must  have  heard  the  prayer,  or  did 
Teutates  frown  upon  her  and  have  his  own 
dark  will  ?  For,  even  as  Aran  the  Druid 
spoke,  a  sword  sprang  from  the  gloom  and 
passed  through  his  back  and  into  his  heart 
and  out  beyond  his  breast,  so  that  he  died  in 
that  moment  and  soundlessly,  save  for  the  bub- 
bling of  a  red  foam  upon  his  lips. 

Swiftly  the  slayer  dragged  the  body  a  score 
of  yards  deeper  into  the  wood.  Then,  with 
famished  haste^  he  denuded  the  druid,  and, 
having  taken  off  his  own  raiment  and  armour, 
put  it  upon  the  silent  one,  in  exchange  for  the 
white  priestly  garment  wherewith  he  had  al- 
ready clothed  himself. 

415 


Ahc2  the  Pale 

Of  his  weapons  he  kept  none  save  a  long, 
broad-bladed  dagger,  which  he  secured  to  the 
belt  beneath  the  robe  he  now  wore.  But  first 
with  it  he  slashed  the  face  of  the  dead  man,  so 
that  none  might  know  him. 

"  Lie  there,"  he  muttered  with  savage  irony: 
"  lie  there,  Jud  IMael !  At  dawn  the  druids  will 
come,  and  will  find  thee  here,  and  will  throw 
thy  sacrilegious  body  on  the  altar-flame,  as  a 
peace-ofifering  to  Teutates.  For  now  /  am 
Aran  the  Druid,  who  has  departed  no  man 
knows  where." 

He  turned  at  that,  and  passed  swiftly  into 
the  forest,  moving  eastward. 

He  walked  till  dawn.  Because  of  the  smile 
in  his  eyes,  he  saw  neither  korrigan  nor  ghoul : 
because  of  the  triumph  in  his  heart  he  feared 
neither  the  tusk  of  the  wild  boar  nor  the  fang 
of  the  wolf.  Once,  at  sunrise,  he  laughed. 
That  was  because,  from  the  summit  of  a  gran- 
ite scaur,  he  saw  a  dark  column  of  smoke  ris- 
ing from  the  Circle  of  Stones  where  he  had 
slain  Aran  the  Druid. 

"  So  that  is  the  end  of  Jud  Mael,"  he  mut- 
tered :  "  and  now  .  .  .  Ahez  may  grind  her 
teeth  that  she  has  missed  the  killing  of  her 
own  prey,  though  her  heart  will  leap  because 
of  that  slaying  and  burning  there  in  the  for- 
est." 

416 


Ahes  the  Pale 

Again,  before  he  left  that  place,  he  mut- 
tered; and  with  clenched  fist  thrust  his  arm 
menacingly  against  that  vague  west  wherein 
his  death  slipped  stealthily  after  him  from  tree 
to  tree.  By  noon  he  was  within  three  miles  of 
the  Altar  of  Teutates,  for  all  that  he  had 
walked  a  score  since  midnight.  He  had  wan- 
dered in  a  circle,  but  knew  it  not ;  for  he  was 
in  a  dream.  When  he  came  to  note  the  sun 
it  was  high  overhead.  Later,  he  slept.  It  was 
a  sweet  sleep  that  he  had,  amid  a  garth  of 
bracken  beset  with  brambles.  All  through  his 
dream  he  heard  the  deep  execrations  of  Ahez, 
daughter  of  Morgwyn,  the  lord  of  Gwened: 
the  low  moaning  of  the  dead  man,  Aran  the 
Druid :  and  the  sound  of  his  own  laughter. 

He  woke  suddenly  at  the  sun-down  howl  of 
a  wolf.  For  a  moment  the  sweat  broke  out 
upon  his  white  face.  It  was  not  because  of  the 
howl  of  the  wandering  beast,  but  because  his 
fear  translated  that  savage  sound  into  the  cry 
of  Ahez.  A  glance  at  his  white  robe  reas- 
sured him.  He  smiled.  What  was  Aran  now  ? 
The  Druids,  at  the  two  great  festivals  of  the 
year,  spoke  of  the  strange  faring  of  the  soul. 
It  came,  they  said,  as  a  flying  bird :  it  slipped 
away,  according  as  were  a  man's  deeds,  as  a 
bird,  as  a  wolf,  as  a  snake,  or  as  a  toad.  His 
skin  grew  cold  for  a  moment  as  he  thought  he 

4^7 


Ahes  the  Pale 

might  meet  Aran  in  some  such  guise:  would 
the  dead  man  recognize  him? 

He  had  the  instinct  of  the  wanderer  against 
sleeping  twice  in  the  same  place.  Moreover, 
hunger  now  began  to  torment  him.  He  crept 
slowly  from  his  lair,  and  wandered  this  way 
and  that  in  search  of  wild  fruits  or  palatable 
herbs.  Suddenly  his  gaze  was  arrested  by  a 
glint  of  flame.  Sinking  to  the  ground,  he 
watched  eagerly ;  fearful  lest  what  he  had  seen 
was  the  torch  of  a  pursuer.  In  a  brief  while, 
however,  he  discerned  that  the  light  was  that 
of  a  fire. 

With  tread  as  stealthy  as  that  of  a  wolf  near 
a  fold  he  stole  out  of  the  wood,  and  from  whin 
to  whin  till  he  was  close  upon  the  fire.  Beside 
it  sat  an  old  man.  Jud  Mael  looked  long  at 
the  woodlander.  His  instinct  was  to  kill  him, 
for  the  sake  of  the  roasted  hedgehog  which  the 
old  man  was  about  to  devour:  but  the  risk 
was  too  great,  for  even  if  the  woodlander  were 
unknown  to  the  druids  his  dead  body  might  af- 
ford a  fatal  clue.  So,  at  the  last,  he  decided 
to  speak. 

So  quietly  did  he  draw  near  that  he  was  at 
the  old  man's  side  unheard. 

The  peasant  stumbled  to  his  feet,  startled: 
but  when  he  saw  the  white  robe  of  a  druid  he 
looked  reassured,  and  made  an  obeisance. 

418 


Ahes  the  Pale 

"  What  do  you  do  here,  in  the  sacred  wood, 
you  who  are  clad  in  skins?  " 

"  I  am  not  within  the  precincts,  holy  one. 
This  glade  is  open  ground.  Surely  you  know 
it,  who  are  Aran  the  Chanter." 

Jud  Mael  started.  A  hunted  look  came  into 
his  wolfish  eyes.  He  knew  there  was  no  re- 
semblance between  Aran  and  himself.  How 
then  did  this  old  man  take  him  for  the  druid 
whom  he  had  slain. 

"  How  know  you  that  I  am  Aran  the  Druid, 
old  man  ?  " 

"  Am  I  wrong,  holy  one  ?  I  took  you  to  be 
Aran,  for  I  heard  that  he  had  wandered  in  the 
forest,  and  had  been  seen  of  no  man  since  yes- 
ter  moonrise." 

"  Even  so,  I  am  Aran.  And  why  are  you 
here?" 

"  I  was  told  to  wait  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
wood,  and  to  light  a  great  fire,  so  that  the 
flame  of  it  should  be  seen  of  the  wanderer. 
But  as  darkness  was  not  yet  come,  and  I  was 
weak  with  hunger  and  had  slain  this  beast,  I 
made  a  small  fire  that  I  might  eat." 

"  I  too  am  hungered.  I  have  tasted  no  food 
for  a  night  and  a  day." 

"  Eat,  then,  holy  one." 

"But  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  can  find  roots  beneath  these  oaks.   It 

419 


Ahes  the  Pale 

is  not  fit  that  I   should  eat  when  Aran  the 
Druid  is  weary  with  hunger.    Eat !  " 

Jud  Mael  ate.  As  he  devoured  the  white 
sweet  meat  his  courage  rose.  By  the  time  he 
had  finished,  the  woodlander  brought  him 
some  ground-berries  wherewith  to  slake  his 
thirst. 

"  Tell  me,  old  man,"  Jud  ]\Iael  said  at  last, 
having  placed  himself  so  that  he  could  see  any 
white-robe  coming  out  of  the  darkness  from 
the  forest :  "  tell  me  what  was  said  concerning 
me." 

"  Nought  that  I  know  of,  save  that  you  had 
wandered." 

"  And  thou  hast  heard  nought  else  to-day  ?  " 

"  Surely.  All  who  dwell  by  the  wood  have 
heard  of  the  death  of  one  who  ventured  into 
the  holy  precincts.  He  was  a  warrior.  He 
died  with  blood.  The  druids  burned  his  ac- 
cursed body  at  sunrise.  Some  say  that  he 
was  slain  by  Aran — and,  as  it  is  an  evil  thing 
for  a  druid  to  take  life,  that  he,  you,  O 
holy  one,  went  into  the  deep  forest  to  do 
penance." 

"  Did  you  hear  the  man's  name?  " 

"  Yes.    It  was  Jud  Mael." 

*'  How  was  that  known?  " 

"  There  was  a  sword  upon  him  that  was 

420 


AJie:^  the  Pale 

the  sword  given  to  the  lord  Jud  Mael  by  ]\I6r- 
gwyn  the  King,  because  of  what  he  did  in 
some  great  battle — I  know  not  what,  nor  what 
battle.  There  was  a  rune  carved  on  it.  More- 
over, his  helmet  had  the  dragon  of  the  Lords 
of  Mael." 

"  I  do  not  know  the  man.    What  of  him  ?  " 

*'  It  is  not  for  me  to  speak." 

"  Speak,  man.     I  command  you." 

"  They  say  he  was  a  fugitive." 

''A  fugitive?  .  .  .  from  the  King?" 

"  No." 

"  From  whom  then  ?  " 

"  From  the  King's  sister,  the  lady  Ahez." 

"The  lady  Ahez?" 

"  Yes :  Ahez  the  Pale  they  call  her,  because 
she  is  so  cream-white  and  fair." 

"  Why  should  Jud  Mael  fly  from  her?  " 

"  They  say  he  did  her  a  great  wrong." 

"What  wrong?" 

"  How  do  I  know,  holy  one  ?  I  can  but  re- 
peat idle  gossip." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  have  heard." 

"  Idle  tongues  have  it  that  Jud  Mael  prom- 
ised marriage  to  Ahez  the  Pale :  but  that  when 
she  bade  him  fulfil  his  vows,  as  she  was  with 
child  to  him,  he  laughed  and  said  he  could 
wed  no  woman,  not  even  the  King's  sister,  be- 
cause that  in  his  own  place  beyond  the  Black 

421 


Ahez  the  Pale 

Mountains  he  had  already  a  wife  and  chil- 
dren." 

"What  else  did  you  hear?" 

"  Nothing,  holy  one." 

"  Did  not  Ahez  the  Pale  speak  to  the 
King?" 

"  They  say  she  did,  but  who  knows  ?  " 

"  What  else  do  they  say  about  that,  they 
who  say  she  did  ?  " 

"That  King  Morgwyn  let  his  riding-whip 
fall  across  her  shoulder,  and  bade  her  begone 
and  not  enter  his  presence  again  till  she  rode 
into  the  castle-wynd  either  with  Jud  Mael  by 
her  side  as  her  wedded  lord  or  with  Jud  Mael's 
head  as  the  price  of  her  honour." 

"Well ?" 

"  That  is  all." 

"  Have  you  not  heard  whither  Jud  Mael 
fled?" 

"  No." 

"  Nor  if  Ahez  the  Pale  has  been  seen,  on 
that  hopeless  quest  of  hers?  " 

"  No." 

"  Old  man,  wouldst  thou  earn  some  gold  ?  " 

"  Gladly,  holy  one." 

"  Then  go  at  dawn — nay,  go  at  once,  for 
now  that  I  am  found  there  is  no  need  for  you 
to  wait  here — and  seek  out  the  lady  Ahez. 
Tell  her  what  you  know  concerning  that  which 

422 


'Ahez  the  Pale 

happened  in  this  forest.  Tell  her  that  you 
have  spoken  with  Aran  the  Druid,  and  that  it 
was  he  who  slew  Jud  Mael,  and  that  he  knew 
the  man — so  that  she  may  know  for  a  surety 
that  he  who  wronged  her  is  no  longer  among 
the  living." 

There  was  no  response  from  the  wood- 
lander.  Jud  Mael  leaned  forward  and  looked 
closely  at  him.  He  saw  that  the  old  man's 
eyes  were  intently  staring. 

"  What  is  it_,  old  man,  what  do  you  see,  that 
you  stare  like  that  ?  " 

"  Yonder  ...  in  the  oak-glade  yonder  .  .  . 
on  a  white  horse  .  .  .  yes,  yes,  it  is  Ahez  the 
Pale  ..." 

With  a  stifled  cry  the  druid  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

Yes,  the  woodlander  was  right.  A  woman, 
with  long  yellow  hair,  rode  on  a  great  white 
war-horse.  She  was  chanting  low  to  herself, 
with  her  eyes  turned  upon  the  moon.  She  had 
not  yet  seen  those  who  had  descried  her. 

With  the  silent  swiftness  of  a  beast  of  prey 
he  slid  back  behind  a  mass  of  gorse,  then 
glided  from  whin  to  whin  till  he  was  under  the 
oaks  again. 

The  old  man  stood,  with  gaping  mouth  and 
rapt  eyes,  as  the  night-rider  drew  nigh. 

Ah,  she  was  fair  indeed,  he  thought:  just 

423 


Ahes  the  Pale 

like  moonlight  she  was,   fair  and   white  and 
wonderful. 

As  the  white  war-horse  trampled  the  brack- 
en, the  words  Ahez  chanted  became  audible. 

But  this  was  in  the  old,  old,  far-off  days, 
But  this  was  in  the  old,  old,  far-off  days. 

Guenn  took  up  his  sword,  and  she  felt  its  shining 
blade, 

And  she  laughed  and  vowed  it  fitted  ill  for  the  han- 
dling of  a  maid. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  darkly  smiled,  and  said  she 

was  a  queen: 
For  she  could  swing  the  white  sword  high  and  love 

its  dazzling  sheen. 

They  rode  beneath  the  ancient  boughs,  and  as  they 

rode  she  sang. 
But  at  the  last  both  silent  were :  only  the  horse-hoofs 

rang. 

She  lifted  up  the  great  white  sword  and  swung  it 

'neath  his  head — - 
"Ah,  you  may  smile,  my  lord,  now  you  may  smile," 

she  said. 

For  this  was  in  the  old,  old,  far-off  days, 
For  this  was  in  the  old,  old,  far-off  days. 

Suddenly  Ahez  reined  in  the  great  white 
stallion  she  rode.  She  had  caught  sight  of 
the  woodlander.     At  that  moment  she  saw  a 

424 


Ahes  the  Pale 

white-robed  figure  glide  into  the  darkness  of 
the  forest. 

"  Tell  me,  forester,"  she  asked — and  the  old 
woodlander  wondered  in  his  heart  whether 
the  beauty  of  her  face  excelled  that  of  her 
voice — "  tell  me  if  the  lord  Jud  Mael  passed 
this  way  ?  " 

"  The  lord  Jud  Mael  is  dead,  great  lady. 
He  was  slain  overnight.  Only  this  moment 
there  was  one  with  me  here  who  slew  him — 
yea,  and  knew  him  to  be  Jud  Mael." 

"  And  what  will  the  name  of  that  man  be, 
and  where  may  I  find  him  ?  " 

"  He  is  called  Aran  the  Chanter.  He  is  a 
druid.  He  may  be  found  at  the  Sacred  Circle. 
But  this  moment  he  went  yonder,  to  the  east- 
ward." 

"  Then  I  will  seek  Aran  the  Chanter,"  she 
said :  and,  so  saying,  Ahez  the  Pale  rode  on- 
ward in  the  moonlight. 

It  was  only  then  that  the  woodlander  no- 
ticed she  carried  a  white  babe  in  the  fold  of 
her  left  arm.  He  knelt,  and  prayed  to  his 
gods. 

Once  more,  as  she  rode,  she  caught  sight  of 
a  white-robed  figure  flitting  rapidly  before 
her. 

"  Ah,  Aran  the  Chanter,"  she  murmured, 
"  I  would  fain  have  word  of  you !  " 

425 


Ahh  the  Pale 

At  the  first  mile  she  passed  the  Well  of 
Death — a  deep  fount  in  tlie  forest  where  the 
nains  were  wont  to  meet.  And  as  she  rode 
she  heard  the  nains  chanting. 

She  had  the  old  ancient  wisdom.  She  knew 
the  wood-speech.  And  the  song  the  nains 
sang  was  of  blood,  and  of  the  red  footsteps 
in  the  wood. 

And  when  Ahez  passed  the  Well  a  nain  ap- 
peared. She  was  like  a  wom.an,  but  was  all 
of  green  flame.     She  sang: 

And  this  was  in  the  old,  old,  far-off  days, 
And  this  was  in  the  old,  old,  far-off  days. 

Whereat  Ahez  the  fearless  chanted  back: 

O  Nain,  what  was  in  the  old,  old,  far-off  days  ? 

And  the  nain  laughed,  and  sang: 

O  Blind  One,  who  followest  a  dead  man  that  is  alive! 

And  having  chanted  this  she  vanished.  But 
Ahez  knew  what  the  nain  meant,  and  the 
blood-flame  rose  in  her. 

So,  she  followed  a  dead  man  who  was  alive ! 
Who  could  this  be  but  Jud  Mael.  Ah,  the 
white-robed  druid ! 

She  took  a  long  dagger  from  her  girdle,  and 

42G 


A  lies  the  Pale 

pricked  the  flank  of  the  white  stalHon  till  the 
blood  trickled  red. 

As  the  steed  sprang  onward  through  the 
moonshine,  the  nains  chanted.  She  heard 
their  wild  mocking  laughter,  and  wondered  if 
to  Aran,  the  flying  druid,  that  was  Jud  Mael, 
the  fugitive  from  death,  their  voices  rang  with 
wild  terror. 

Once,  from  an  oak-glade,  she  saw  him  look 
back  Over  his  shoulder. 

The  eyes  of  the  gods  were  in  the  Wood  of 
Broceliande  that  night.  Whether  Jud  Mael 
turned  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  or  fled  on- 
ward with  stumbling  feet,  seeking  for  dark 
places  and  briery  thickets  and  the  conduits  of 
damp  caverns,  the  moonbeams  tracked  him 
like  hounds. 

While  still  afar  ofif,  Ahez  the  Pale  saw  this 
thing,  and  she  smiled. 

Once  he  stopped  for  a  few  panting  mo- 
ments.   He  heard  her  chanting: 

For  this  was  in  the  old,  old,  far-off  days. 
For  this  was  in  the  old,  old,  far-off  days. 

Then,  blind  with  fear,  he  stumbled  on. 

For  a  brief  while  thereafter  he  had  hope. 
The  sound  of  the  following  hoofs  grew  faint- 
er.  Thrice,  on  furtively  looking  back,  he  could 

427 


Ahes  the  Pale 

discern  no  white  rider,  no  white  horse.  Once, 
in  a  rearward  glade,  he  saw  two  leverets  play- 
ing in  the  moonshine.  He  drew  a  long  breath. 
It  was  well,  he  thought;  for  he  had  now  a 
wide  glade  to  cross,  a  vast  glade  horribly- 
white  with  the  moonflood,  with  but  a  single 
isle  of  refuge  midway,  a  solitary  lightning- 
blasted  oak. 

Jud  J\Iael  hesitated  to  traverse  this  terrify- 
ing void,  yet  dared  not  skirt  it  lest  the  woman 
on  the  white  horse  should  cut  him  off.  At  last 
he  fell  on  his  hands  and  knees,  and  slowly 
crawled  through  the  dewy  fern. 

He  had  gone  half-way,  when  suddenly  his 
heart  leaped  against  his  throat. 

A  great  white  stallion  was  trampling  down 
the  bracken  at  the  edge  of  the  glade.  A 
woman,  with  long  moonlit  hair,  rode  it ;  and 
as  she  rode  in  silence  he  heard  the  crying  of 
a  child. 

With  gasping  haste  he  crawled  close  to  the 
oak.  There,  among  its  cavernous  roots,  he 
hoped  to  escape  unseen. 

Ahez  the  Pale  rode  straight  for  the  soli- 
tary tree.  When  the  great  stallion  trampled 
among  the  far-spreading  roots,  she  drew 
rein. 

"  Come  forth,  Jud  Mael,"  she  cried. 

Jud  Mael  shivered.    At  last  the  man  within 

428 


Ahh  the  Pale 

him  wrestled  with  the  coward,  and  he  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  stepped  out  into  the  moonhght. 

"  Art  thou  Aran  the  Druid,  O  thou  who 
wearest  a  white  robe,  or  art  thou  Jud  Mael  ?  " 

"  I  am  Jud  Mael,  O  Ahez,  whom  I  have 
loved." 

"  And  it  was  thou  who  slew  the  priest  ?  " 

"  He  came  to  his  death." 

"  As  thou  to  thine.  But  first,  lest  I  slay  thee 
where  thou  standest,  take  this  child  that  is 
your  child.  He  is  no  child  of  mine,  though  I 
bore  him.  I  am  of  the  royal  line,  that  never 
bore  a  coward,  and  what  could  this  child  be 
but  a  coward  and  a  traitor?  The  boy  must 
die." 

"  I  cannot  slay  the  little  one,  Ahez." 

"  I  have  not  tracked  thee  down  to  bandy 
words.    Take  thou  the  child." 

Slowly  Jud  Mael  advanced.  On  his  white 
face  the  sweat  glittered  like  dew. 

He  pvit  out  his  arms,  and  enfolded  the  child. 
Then,  with  steadfast  eyes,  he  looked  up  at 
Ahez. 

She  stared  at  him  unflinchingly,  but  made 
no  sign. 

"Ahez!" 

"  Hast  thou  not  heard  me,  dog?  " 

Jud  Mael  flushed  a  deep  red. 

"Beware,  woman!     After  all,  it  is  but  a 

429 


Ahcz  the  Pale 

woman  you  are,  and  you  are  alone  here,  and 
I  can  slay  you  as  easily  as  I  could  a  fawn  of 
the  forest." 

"  Thou  liest." 

The  man  looked  at  her  defiantly;  then,  sul- 
lenly, his  eyes  fell. 

"  What  wouldst  thou,  Ahez  ?  " 

"  Slay  this  child."    . 

With  a  sudden  savage  gesture  the  man  took 
the  broad  knife  from  the  belt  that  was  below 
his  white  robe.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
abruptly  plunged  the  iron  blade  into  the  child's 
breast.  There  was  a  long  gasping  sound,  a 
clinching  of  little  fingers,  a  spasmodic  twitch- 
ing of  little  hands  and  feet.  A  thin  jet  of 
blood  spurted  up  in  the  face  of  Jud  Mael.  He 
stood,  shaking,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"  Why  hast  thou  made  me  do  this  thing, 
Ahez?" 

"  Thou  wert  a  liar,  and  betrayed  me.  Think- 
est  thou  I  shall  bear  the  seed  of  a  traitor?  " 

"  But  to  what  end  ?  " 

"  To  what  end  ?  .  .  ,  That  thy  soul  may 
pass  into  some  evil  thing,  and  die  and  utterly 
perish.  For  now  thou  hast  slain  thine  own 
blood.  Bring  me  the  child.  Alive,  it  was 
thine ;  slain,  it  is  mine." 

Jud  Mael  slowly  drew  near.  He  lifted  the 
inert  small  body.     Ahez  leaned  sideways  as 

430 


Ahez  the  Pale 

though  to  take  it  in  her  arms.  As  she  gripped 
the  child  with  her  left  hand,  she  raised  her 
right  arm.  The  next  moment  a  dagger  flashed 
in  the  moonlight,  and  with  a  scraping,  gurgling 
sound,  sank  in  between  the  shoulders  of  Jud 
Mael. 

The  man  staggered,  reeled,  and  would  have 
fallen  but  for  the  heaving  flank  of  the  stallion. 

Ahez  leaned  back,  and  with  a  wrench  pulled 
away  the  dagger.  Then  before  the  stricken 
man  could  recover  she  thrust  the  blade  into 
his  neck. 

Jud  Mael  gave  a  hoarse  cry.  As  he  fell,  he 
slashed  at  the  thigh  of  Ahez,  but  the  weapon 
missed  and  made  a  deep  cut  in  the  belly  of  the 
stallion.  Snorting  and  rearing,  the  great  beast 
swung  round  and  trampled  upon  the  fallen 
man,  neighing  savagely  the  while. 

When  he  lay  quite  still,  Ahez  dismounted. 
She  took  the  body  of  the  child  and  piled  loose 
stones  above  it,  to  keep  it  sacred  against  wild 
beasts  and  birds  of  prey.  < 

Thereafter,  with  Jud's  knife,  she  severed 
the  man's  head,  and  by  its  long  black  hair 
slung  it  to  the  tangled  mane  of  the  stallion. 

Then  she  mounted,  and  rode  slowly  back  by 
the  way  she  had  come. 


431 


THE   KING   OF  YS   AND 
DAHUT  THE   RED 


The  King  of  Ys  and 
Dahut  the  Red 


(Proem) 

In  the  days  when  Gradlon  was  Conan  of 
Arvor,  or  High-King  of  the  Armorican  races 
who  peopled  Brittany,  there  was  no  name 
greater  than  his.  From  the  sand-dunes  of  the 
Jutes  and  Angles  to  where  the  dark-skinned 
Basque  fishermen  caught  fish  with  nets,  the 
name  of  Gradlon  was  a  sound  for  silence. 
Arvor  was  become  so  great  a  land  that  Franks 
were  called  wolves  there,  and  like  wolves 
were  hunted  down.  The  wild  cry  that  sur- 
vives to  this  day  in  the  forests  of  Dualt  and 
Huelgoet,  in  the  granite  heart  of  Cornovailles, 
A'hr  bleiz!  A'hr  bleis!  was  heard  often  then: 
but  no  wolf  ever  so  dreaded  the  cry  as  the 
haggard  Frankish  fugitives. 

Gradlon,  Conan  of  Arvor,  was  in  the  mid- 
way of  life  when  for  once  he  staunched  the 
thirst  of  his  sword.  This  was  when  he  went 
over  into  the  lands  of  the  Kymry,  the  elder 

435 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahut  the  Red 

brothers  of  his  Armorican  race,  and  there 
fought  with  them  against  Saxon  hordes,  till 
the  red  tide  ebbed.  Thereafter  he  had  gone 
far  northward  till  the  Oeban  Gaels  hated  the 
singing  of  Breton  shafts,  and  till  the  moun- 
tain-tribes of  the  Picts  paid  tribute.  Thence, 
at  last,  he  returned.  When  he  came  to  his 
own  land,  he  brought  with  him  two  treasures 
which  he  held  chief  among  all  treasures  he 
had  won :  a  black  stallion,  and  a  woman,  white 
as  cream  with  eyes  like  blue  lochs  and  with 
long  great  masses  of  hair  red  as  the  bronze- 
red  berry  of  the  wild  ash.  The  name  of  the 
horse  was  INIorvark:  the  name  of  the  woman, 
Malgven.  When  men  spoke  of  the  Tameless 
One  they  meant  Morvark :  and  after  a  time 
they  seldom  said  Malgven,  but  "  the  Queen," 
because  Gradlon  made  her  the  Terror  of  Arvor, 
or  "  the  White  Queen,"  because  of  her  foam 
white  beauty,  or  the  "  Red  Queen,"  because 
of  her  masses  of  ruddy  hair,  which,  when  un- 
fastened, was  as  a  stream  of  blood  falling  over 
a  white  clifif. 

None  knew  whence  Morvark  came,  nor 
whence  Malgven.  What  passed  from  lip  to 
lip  was  this:  that  the  great,  black,  tameless 
stallion  was  foaled  of  no  earthly  mare,  but  of 
some  strange  and  terrible  sea-beast.  It  had 
come  out  of  the  North,  on  a  day  of  tempest. 

436 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahiit  the  Red 

Amid  the  screaming  of  the  gale  in  the  haven 
where  Gradlon  and  the  men  of  Arvor  were,  a 
more  wild,  a  more  savage  screaming  had  been 
heard.  Gradlon  went  forth  alone,  and  at  dawn 
he  was  seen  riding  on  a  huge  black  stallion, 
which  neighed  with  a  cry  like  the  cry  of  the 
sea-wind,  and  whose  hoofs  trampled  the  wet 
sands  with  a  sound  like  the  clashing  of  waves. 
The  hair  of  Gradlon  was  streaming  out  on  the 
wind  like  yellow  seaweed  on  a  rushing  ebb: 
his  laughter  was  like  the  hallala  leaping  of 
billows :  his  eyes  were  wild  as  falling  stars. 

It  was  when  far  in  the  Alban  northlands 
that  the  Breton  king  and  Malgven  were  first 
seen  together.  She  was  not  a  conquest  of  the 
sword.  The  rumour  by  the  fires  had  it  that 
she  was  the  queen  of  a  great  prince  among 
the  Gaels :  that  she  was  wife  to  the  King 
of  the  Picts :  that  she  was  of  the  fair,  perilous 
people  of  Lochlin,  who  were  even  then  seizing 
for  their  own  the  Alban  isles  and  western 
lands.  But  one  saying  was  common  with  all : 
that  she  was  a  woman  of  dark  powers.  One 
and  all  dreaded  her  sorceries.  Gradlon 
laughed  at  these,  when  she  was  not  by,  but 
swore  that  there  had  never  been  since  the  first 
woman  so  great  a  sorceress  over  the  heart  of 
man. 

For  many  months   they   were   together  in 

437 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahut  the  Red 

Alba,  nor  did  once  Malgven  sigh  for  the  place 
or  the  man  she  had  left,  nor  did  ever  any  her- 
ald come  to  Gradlon  calling  upon  him  to  give 
up  the  vv^oman.  When  she  had  learned  the 
Armorican  tongue  she  spoke  to  some  of  the 
Breton  chiefs,  but  she  had  eyes  for  one  man 
only.  She  loved  Gradlon  as  he  loved  her. 
When  they  asked  her  concerning  her  people, 
she  looked  at  them  till  they  were  troubled: 
then  she  answ^ered,  I  was  bom  of  the  Wind 
and  the  Sea:  and,  troubled  more,  they  asked 
no  further. 

It  was  when  they  were  upon  the  sea,  off  the 
Cymric  coasts,  that  the  child  of  Malgven  was 
born. 

For  three  days  before  that  birthing,  strange 
voices  were  heard  rising  from  the  depths.  In 
the  hollow  of  following  waves  the  long-dead 
were  seen.  In  the  moonshine  the  flying  foam 
was  woven  into  white  robes,  wherefrom 
shining  eyes,  calm  and  august,  or  filled  with 
communicating  terror,  looked  upon  the  trem- 
bling seamen. 

On  the  third  day  white  calms  prevailed.  At 
sundown  the  web  of  dusk  was  woven  out  of 
the  sea,  till  it  rose  in  purple  darkness  and  hung 
from  the  Silver  Apples,  the  Great  Galley,  the 
Hounds,  the  Star  of  the  North,  and  the  Even- 
ing Star.   At  the  rising  of  the  moon,  a  sudden 

438 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahiit  the  Red 

froth  ran  along  the  black  lips  of  the  sea.  A 
Voice  moaned  beneath  the  travelling  feet  of 
the  waves,  and  trembled  against  the  stars.  Men, 
staring  into  the  moving  gulfs  beneath  them, 
beheld  vast  irresolute  hands,  as  of  a  Swimmer 
who  carried  Ocean  upon  his  unfathomable 
brows ;  others,  staring  upward  into  the  dust  of 
the  Milky  Way,  discerned  eyebrows  terrible  as 
comets,  and  beneath  them  pale  orbs  as  of  for- 
gotten moons,  with  long  wind-uplifted  hair 
blowing  from  old  worlds  idly  swinging  in  the 
abyss,  far  back  into  the  starless  inlands  of  the 
Silent  King. 

And  as  that  Breath  arose,  the  knees  of  the 
seafarers  were  as  reeds  in  a  shaken  water. 
An  old  druid  of  the  Gaels  whispered  Mana- 
nann!    O  Mananann! 

Gradlon  the  king  lay  upon  the  fells  of  she- 
wolves,  and  bit  his  lips,  and  muttered  that  if 
a  man  spoke  he  would  take  his  heart  from 
him  and  throw  it  to  the  filmy  beasts  of  the 
sea. 

It  was  then  that  Malgven's  labour  was 
done.  Her  belly  opened,  and  a  woman-child 
came  forth,  and  at  the  first  cry  of  the  child 
the  Voice  that  was  a  Breath  ceased.  And  when 
there  was  no  more  any  moaning  of  the  un- 
numbered, cries  and  laughters  came  from  the 
deeps;  and  like  a  flash  of  wings  meteors  fled 

439 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahut  the  Red 

by ;  and  beyond  the  unsteady  masts  were  sud- 
den green  and  blue  flames,  plumes  worn  by 
demons  whose  meeting  pinions  were  made  of 
shadow,  and  beyond  these  the  dancing  of  the 
little  stars.  And  by  these  portents  Gradlon 
was  troubled.  But  Malgven  smiled  and  said : 
"  Let  the  girl  be  called  Dahut,  Wonder,  for 
truly  her  beauty  shall  be  the  wonder  of  all  who 
come  after  us.  She  is  but  a  little  foam-white 
human  child :  but  the  sea  is  in  her  veins,  and 
her  eyes  are  two  fallen  stars.  Her  voice  will 
be  the  mysterious  voice  of  the  sea :  her  eyes 
will  be  the  mysterious  light  within  the  sea: 
therefore  let  her  be  called  Dahut.  She  shall 
be  the  little  torch  at  the  end,  for  me,  Malgven : 
she  shall  be  the  Star  of  Death  for  the  multi- 
tude whom  she  will  slay  with  love:  she  shall 
be  the  doom  of  thee  and  thine  and  thy  people 
and  the  kingdom  that  is  thine,  O  Gradlon, 
Conan  of  Arvor :  therefore  let  her  be  called 
Dahut,  Wonder ;  Dahut,  the  sweet  evil  singing 
of  the  sea ;  Dahut,  Blind  Love ;  Dahut,  the 
Laugher;  Dahut,  Death.  Yea,  let  her  be 
called  Dahut,  O  Gradlon,  she  to  whom  I  have 
given  more  than  other  women  give  to  those 
whom  they  bear :  for  I  am  of  those  children  of 
Danu  of  whom  you  have  heard  strange  tales, 
of  those  Tuath-De-Danann  whose  lances 
made  of  moonshine  can  pierce  granite  walls, 

440 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahiit  the  Red 

and  whose  wisdom  is  more  old  than  the  an- 
cient forgotten  cromlechs  in  your  land  and  in 
mine,  and  whose  pleasure  it  is  to  dwell  where 
are  the  palaces  of  the  Sidhe,  that  are  wher- 
ever green  hills  grow  dim  and  pale  and  blue  as 
the  smoke  above  woods." 

Thus  was  it  that  the  sea-born  child  of  Grad- 
lon  of  Arvor  and  Malgven  the  Dannite  was 
called  Dahut. 

When  the  Armoricans  returned  to  their  own 
land,  the  brother  of  Gradlon,  whom  he  had 
made  Tarist  or  vice-Regent  welcomed  Gradlon 
for  their  father,  the  old  King  of  Cornouailles 
still  lived,  though  blind  from  the  Gaulish 
arrow  which  had  crossed  his  face  slantwise 
in  a  great  battle  on  the  banks  of  the  Loire. 
It  was  not  till  the  seventh  year  thereafter 
that  Gradlon  again  fared  far.  For  three 
years  he  was  among  the  Kymry,  the  Alban 
Gaels,  the  Picts,  the  Islesmen,  the  Gaels, 
of  Erie,  the  Gaels  of  Enona :  then,  when  he 
was  in  that  land  which  is  now  called  Anglesey, 
a  deep  craving  and  weariness  came  upon  him 
to  see  Malgven  again,  though  less  than  a  year 
back  had  she  gone  from  him,  to  rule  in  Arvor 
in  his  place,  for  Arz  his  brother  had  been  slain 
in  a  Prankish  foray. 

Her  beauty  was  so  great  that  he  wore  the 
days  in  sorrow  because  of  it.    When  he  arose 

441 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahut  the  Red 

at  dawn  it  flashed  against  his  eyes  out  of  the 
rising  sun :  when  he  looked  at  the  sea,  it 
moved  from  wave  to  wave,  and  beckoned  to 
him :  when  he  stared  at  the  cloud-shadowed 
hills  he  saw  it  lying  there  adream :  when  he 
fared  forth  at  the  rising  of  the  moon  it  took 
him  subtly,  now  with  a  birch  branch  that 
caught  his  hair  as  often  it  had  tangled  with 
Malgven's  long  curling  locks,  now  with  the 
brushing  of  tall  fern  that  was  a  sound  like  the 
rustling  of  her  white  robe,  now  because  of 
two  stars  shining  low  above  dewy  grass, 
which  were  as  her  shining  eyes. 

There  was  no  woman  in  the  world  so  beau- 
tiful, he  knew :  and  yet  both  men  and  women 
prophesied  that  Dahut  would  be  more  beauti- 
ful still — Dahut  the  Red,  as  the  girl  was  al- 
ready called  because  of  her  ruddy  bronze- 
hued  hair,  wonderful  in  mass  and  colour  as 
was  that  of  her  mother:  more  wonderful  far, 
said  Malgven,  smiling  proudly,  who  knew 
Dahut  to  be  of  the  Tuath-De-Danann  even  as 
her  mother  was,  and  that  she  would  be  a  torch 
to  light  many  flames  and  mayhap  fires  vast 
and  incalculable. 

So  one  day  Gradlon  arose  and  said  "  For 
Dahut,"  and  broke  his  sword :  and  said  "  For 
Arvor,"  and  broke  his  spear :  and  said,  "  For 
Malgven,"    and   bade    every   prisoner  be   set 

442 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahut  the  Red 

free,  and  the  ships  be  filled  with  treasure  and 
provision. 

When  he  saw  the  black  rocky  coasts  of  Fin- 
istere  once  more  he  swore  a  vow  that  he 
would  never  again  leave  his  land,  or  Malgven. 

Everywhere  as  he  journeyed  to  Kemper  he 
heard  the  rumour  of  the  Red  Queen's  great- 
ness, of  her  terrible  beauty,  of  Dahut  the 
Beautiful,  Dahut  the  Perilous,  Dahut  the  Sor- 
ceress. And  he  laughed  to  think  that  the  girl 
of  ten  summers  was  already  so  like  the  woman 
who  bore  her :  and  his  heart  yearned  for  both, 
as  his  ears  longed  to  be  void  of  the  ceaseless 
moan  of  the  sea.  His  first  joy  was  when  he 
rode  through  the  forest  of  Huelgoet  and  heard 
no  sound  but  the  croodling  of  wild  doves  and 
the  soft,  sleepy  purring  of  the  south  wind  lap- 
ping the  green  leaves.  When  he  reached  the 
great  town,  as  Kemper  was  then  called,  he  saw 
black  banners  falling  from  the  low  walls  of 
the  Fort.  He  rode  onward  alone,  and  found 
Malgven  lying  on  a  high  couch  with  her  gold- 
en diadem  on  her  head,  and  her  long  hair 
clasped  with  golden  rings,  and  her  snow  white 
arms  alongside  her  breastplate  of  curiously 
carven  mail,  which  she  wore  above  a  white 
robe.     Beside  her  sat  the  old  blind  King. 

From  that  day  Gradlon  never  smiled.     For 
five  years  from  that  day  he  strove  against  the 

443 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahut  the  Red 

bitter  hours  and  in  all  unkingly  ways,  but 
without  avail.  He  could  not  forget  the  beauty 
of  Malgven.  For  one  year  he  strove  furiously 
in  war.  For  a  second  year  he  hunted  wild 
beasts,  from  forest  to  forest,  from  the  do- 
mains of  the  north  to  the  domains  of  the 
south  and  from  the  domains  of  the  east  to  the 
domains  of  the  west.  For  the  third  year  he 
loved  women  by  day,  and  cursed  them 
through  sleepless  remembering  nights.  For 
the  fourth  year  he  drank  deep.  For  the  fifth 
year  the  evil  of  his  life  was  so  great  that  men 
murmured  against  him :  and  many  muttered 
"  Better  the  old  blind  King,  Arz-Dall,  or  the 
young  sorceress  Dahut  herself." 

During  all  these  years  Gradlon  had  no  sight 
of  Dahut.  Because  that  she  was  her  mother's 
self,  and  because  that  her  beauty  was  so  like 
yet  greater  than  that  of  Malgven,  the  King 
had  sent  her  to  Razmor,  his  great  fort  in  the 
north,  where  are  the  wildest  seas  and  the  wild- 
est shores  of  Armorica.  And  in  all  these  years 
Gradlon  had  but  one  joy,  and  that  was  when 
he  mounted  the  great  black  stallion,  Morvark, 
and  rode  for  hours,  and  for  leagues  upon 
leagues,  by  the  falling  surf  of  the  seas.  For 
when  he  rode  the  great  horse,  the  sea-beast  as 
the  Armoricans  called  it  in  their  dread,  he 
dreamed  he  heard  voices  he  heard  at  no  other 

444 


The  King  of  Ys  and  DaJiut  the  Red 

time,  and  often,  often,  the  long  cry  of  Malg- 
ven  that  he  had  first  Hstened  to  with  shudder- 
ing awe  among  the  GaeHc  hills. 

It  was  at  the  end  of  the  fifth  year  that  he 
came  suddenly  upon  Dahut,  when  he  was  rid- 
ing on  Morvark  by  the  wild  coast  of  Razmor. 
When  his  gaze  drank  in  her  great  beauty,  he 
reined  in  his  furious  stallion,  and  his  heart 
beat,  for  it  was  surely  Malgven  come  again,  in 
immortal  Dannite  youth.  Then,  remember- 
ing that  Morvark  would  let  no  mortal  mount 
him,  save  only  Gradlon  and  Malgven  that  was 
gone,  he  flung  himself  to  the  ground,  and  lay 
there  as  though  dead — whereat  with  a  loud 
neighing,  terrible  as  the  storm  blast,  Morvark 
raced  with  streaming  mane  toward  Dahut. 
And  when  he  was  come  to  her,  the  girl  laughed 
and  held  out  her  arms,  and  the  black  stallion 
whinnied  with  red  nostrils  against  her  cream- 
white  breasts,  and  his  great  eyes  were  like 
dark  billows  that  have  sunken  rocks  beneath 
them,  and  when  he  bent  low  his  head  and 
Dahut's  ruddy  hair  streamed  over  her  white 
shoulders,  like  blood  falling  over  a  white  clifif, 
it  was  as  though  beneath  this  sunlit  white 
cliff  brooded  the  terror  and  mystery  of  noc- 
turnal seas.  Then  Dahut  mounted  Morvark, 
and  rode  back  toward  the  King  her  father. 
As  she  rode,  the  moan  of  Ocean  broke  across 

445 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahiit  the  Red 

the  sands.  Waves  lifted  themselves  out  of 
windless  calms,  and  made  a  hollow  noise  as  of 
travelling  thunders.  On  the  unfurrowed  flow- 
ing plains,  billows,  like  vast  cattle  with  shaggy 
manes,  rose  and  coursed  hither  and  thither, 
with  long,  low,  deliberate  roar  upon  roar. 
Among  the  rocks  and  caverns  a  myriad  wave 
relinquished  clinging  hands,  only  to  spring 
forward  again  and  seize  the  dripping  rocks 
and  swirl  far  inland  long  watery  fingers  so 
swift  and  fluent  yet  with  salt  grip  terrible  and 
sure. 

Gradlon  looked  at  Dahut,  and  at  the  snort- 
ing stallion  Morvark,  and  at  the  suddenly 
awakened  and  uplifted  sea. 

"  Avel,  avelon,  holl  avcl!  "  he  cried:  "  wind, 
wind,  all  is  but  wind !  vain  as  the  wind,  void 
as  the  wind !  " 

For  he  had  seen  that  the  woman,  whose 
beauty  was  so  great  that  his  heart  beat  for 
fear  of  its  strangeness,  was  no  other  than  Da- 
hut  his  daughter:  and  by  that  passing  loveli- 
ness and  that  terrible  beauty,  and  by  the  bend- 
ing to  her  of  the  Tameless  Morvark,  and  by 
the  portents  of  the  Sea  which  loved  her,  he 
knew  that  this  was  the  daughter  of  Malgven, 
who  was  of  the  ancient  and  deathless  children 
of  Danu. 

When  Gradlon  rode  back  to  Kemper  with 

446 


The  King  of  Ys  and  Dahut  the  Red 

Dahut  before  him  upon  Morvark,  all  who  saw 
them  fell  on  their  knees.  So  great  was  the 
beauty  of  Dahut,  and  so  strange  was  already 
the  public  rumour  of  the  Sorceress,  of  this 
Daughter  of  the  Sea.  Her  skin  was  white  as 
new  milk,  as  the  breasts  of  doves :  her  hair  was 
long  and  thick  and  wonderful,  and  of  the  hue 
of  rowan  berries  in  sunlight,  of  bronze  in  fire- 
light, of  newly  spilled  blood  trickling  down  a 
white  cliff:  her  eyes  were  changeful  as  the 
sea,  and,  as  the  sea,  were  filled  with  unfath- 
omable desires,  and  with  shifting  light  full  of 
terror  and  beauty. 

But  because  Dahut  could  not  live  far  from 
the  wild  seas  she  loved,  she  bade  Gradlon 
make  a  new  great  town,  and  to  build  it  by 
Razmor,  where  the  square-walled  castle  was, 
on  the  wave-swept  promontory. 

And  thus  was  the  town  of  Ys  built  by  Grad- 
lon, Conan  of  Arvor,  for  the  mystery  and  the 
delight  and  the  wonder  and  the  terror  that 
was  called  Dahut  the  Red. 


447 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 

By  Mrs.  William  Sharp 

The  publication  of  Pharais  (1894)  and  The  Moun- 
tain Lovers  (1895)  by  William  Sharp,  under  the 
pseudonym  of  "Fiona  Macleod,"  was  followed  by 
that  of  two  volumes  of  Tales :  The  Sin-Eater  and  Other 
Tales  in  1895,  and  The  Washer  of  the  Ford  and  Other 
Legendary  Moralities  in  1896,  published  by  P.  Geddes 
and  Colleagues,  to  which  firm  William  Sharp  was 
literary  adviser.  In  1897  the  contents  of  the  two 
books  were  rearranged  and  published  in  a  three- 
volumed  paper-covered  edition  entitled  Barbaric 
Tales,  Dramatic  Tales,  Spiritual  Romances,  and  to 
each  volume  a  new  tale  was  added.  In  1900  the 
five  volumes  were  reissued  by  Mr.  David  Nutt. 

In  America  The  Washer  of  the  Ford  and  The  Sin- 
Eater  were  brought  out  by  Messrs.  Stone  and  Kim- 
ball (Chicago)  in  1895  and  1896;  and  in  1906  were  re- 
issued by  Messrs.  Dufifield  &  Co. 

For  the  purposes  of  the  present  edition  various 
alterations  have  been  made  in  the  arrangement  of 
the  two  original  volumes;  inasmuch  as  the  major 
portion  of  their  contents  now  form  one  volume. 
From  The  Sin-Eater  the  tales  concerning  the  Achana 
Brothers  are  grouped  together,  with  others  of  the 
same  series  under  the  sub-title  of  "Under  the  Dark 
Star,"  in  The  Dominion  of  Dreams  (Vol.  Ill),  whereto 
"The  Birdeen"  has  been  transferred,  and  also  "The 

448 


Bibliographical  Note 

Daughter  of  the  Sun"  in  an  altered  form  and  en- 
titled "A  Memory."  "Tragic  Landscapes"  now 
forms  part  of  Volume  VI. 

The  alterations  in  the  contents  of  The  Washer  of 
the  Ford  are  as  follows:  "Ula  and  Urla"  is  now  in- 
cluded in  The  Sin-Eater  section  of  this  volume,  be- 
cause that  tale  is  the  sequel  to  "The  Silk  o'  the 
Kine"  and  was  written  subsequently  to  the  publi- 
cation of  The  Sin-Eater.  Two  tales  from  "The 
Shadow-Seers"  will  be  found  in  Vol.  Ill,  and  two 
in  Vol.  IV.  "The  Woman  with  the  Net"  and  "The 
Sad  Queen"  have  been  added  to  The  Washer  of  the 
Ford  section  from  The  Dominion  of  Dreams,  and 
"Ahez  the  Pale"  from  Barbaric  Tales.  "Dahut 
the  Red,"  written  in  1905,  is  herein  reprinted  from 
The  Pall-Mali  Magazine,  where  it  appeared  post- 
humously in  1906. 

The  slight  revision  of  the  text,  and  the  substitu- 
tion of  the  English  titles  of  "St.  Bride  of  the  Isles" 
for  "Muime  Chriosd,"  and  "Cathal  of  the  Woods" 
for  "The  Annir  Choille,"  are  in  accordance  with  in- 
structions left  by  the  author. 


449 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


5EIN  2  ^ 


'ij'^ 


Form  LO-lOml, '52  (9291)444 


/ 


I 


PUEA'S  DO  NOT  RE»*oyE: 
'^'-    THIS  BOOK  CARO    • 


lo  = 


'^4'aodnvo-i^^ 


UnWersi 


,y  Research  Librory 


» 

S3 


JS 

a 
a 


fi 

£ 
s 


:iilL,„ 


•  iltUillltlttll  i  '  ■  :•"!  li 


^JtUlll^HllStlll 


.utau 


!!1! 


